


The Halo Around My Crowned Head

by noncorporealform



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bearded Steve Rogers, Chronic Illness, Courtly Love, Feudalism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noncorporealform/pseuds/noncorporealform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knight-Captain Rogers fell in love with the prince the moment he saw him. Prince Buchanan could repay those affections if it weren't for the fact that by now he's accustomed to never having anything he desires while King Alexander reigns.</p><p>Medieval AU in which Bucky is a sickly prince and Steve is a knight who is too noble for his own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story would never have come into being without [petite-madame's amazing prince!Bucky and knight!Steve art](http://petite-madame.tumblr.com/post/128712528916/princebucky-and-knightsteve-i-posted-these-two). I just needed to tell a story about these guys. 
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from "y" by iamamiwhoami.
> 
> Thanks also to viceanglias, jiggatravels, thetorontokid, and zed_pm for asking to be signed tf up.

They called him Prince Buchanan, but that was not his name. They tried to call him James; he merely tolerated it. So the servants learned to call him ‘my prince’ or ‘my lord’ to placate both the prince and the king. The name James was unavoidable. The name he kept for himself was reserved for the mouth of only one other. He had accepted he would never hear it again.

They asked his lordship permission to put on his robes. He wished they wouldn’t—of all the things he was incapable of, dressing himself wasn’t one of them. But the king insisted. He raised his pale arms and they dropped his undershirt over his head. A silk vest of deep black, threaded with red, was wrapped around his chest. Over his back they placed a red coat, the shoulders and chest swirled in pale gold patterns of vines and leaves, blooming petals of coral blending into the heavy brocade. His trousers were black, and he wore soft boots lined with the same plush fur that lined his coat. At least he wouldn’t be cold. That was often a chief cause of his suffering in stone castles as autumn took hold.

James pushed himself off his bed, his servants lifting him up by his arms. He did not have the heart to snap at them and tell them he felt strong that day. They were only fulfilling his late mother’s wishes, and besides that, he would not make them the victims of a wrath that he wished he could send elsewhere. He was content to stand in the warm light that burst through the window and warmed him under his robes as they tied a sash around his waist.

The master of the wardrobe made the final adjustments to his robes. His cousin the king awaited him and the master would not risk his reputation. James could not blame him for it. In the dark and bloody days they lived in, losing one’s station took the head with it. The last touch was a golden clasp made of medallions, the blue symbol of his house laying at the center—a blue jay in flight. Two servants, whom he did not know, would accompany him from the bed chambers in his apartment and to the king’s cabinet counsel.

 _What could that man with me now_? James wondered, the words venomous even in his head.

Walking was not difficult that day, but holding up his head was. He knew he was glaring from under his long, dark hair and he had no want to change his mood. He meant to deny King Alexander even one inch of what he would demand. In his walk down the corridor to the other wing of the castle, he made himself harder with every step.

With his eyes lowered too low to the ground, he nearly missed the figure in black which stepped from behind a pillar. The stone hall stretched by yards beyond the masked man wrapped in black cloth. There were no others but James and his two servants. James knew it was an assassin, but some dominant part of his mind refused to acknowledge the danger before him. When the dagger appeared he knew of no other course than to try and grab the assassin’s forearm.

He did. That did not stop the blade from tearing into his robe and gashing into his arm. He had never had a gash in his skin so terrible, yet even as he screamed he would not let go of the assassin’s arm. He peered under the hood to try and see the assassin’s face but a hardened, white mask hid it. He looked like a skull bleeding into shadows, a furious chalk face scratched into black stone.

One of the servants, a small and brave man, leaped for the assassin’s shoulders, grasping and pulling. The assassin threw him aside with terrible force. The servant gasped as he hit the stone walls of the hall. The other servant retreated the way they had come, leather soles slapping against stone as he ran.

The assassin pulled the knife back, James shouting as it again scraped his skin.

James had no reason to protect the servant. He was the one to be preserved and protected, but he forgot it. The assassin thrust his dagger at the servant and James put himself between them, catching the knife, this time in his shoulder. He reached up and grasped the hilt and kept it in his shoulder, though the assassin tried to pull it back. James’ voice crackled and some guttural cry was muffled inside his pain. He would not let go—and so the assassin pushed it further in. James screamed, but ground his soles into the floor.

The loud creak and bang of a door opening preluded the clank of armored guards. The assassin and James turned their heads at the same time—the servant who had run had found help. At the sight of them the assassin let go of the knife and leapt backwards. With the grace of an acrobat he scaled a statue which lined the hall and broke the glass of the window above it. He leapt out of the window and disappeared, no more than a banished shadow.

James pulled the dagger from his shoulder. His hand shook as he saw the blood beading on shiny, new metal. The dagger wound, which the servant tried to stifle, became a fountain of blood. At last the physicians’ warnings not to let him bleed rang in his head.

#

Steve let the water fall over his head. It was cool and the autumn chill made it colder. Starved, sleepless, he still did not shiver as it poured over him. The vigil had been long, and the fasting had made it longer. He summoned his mind far afield and only listened to the sound of water falling and dripping. The initiates scrubbed him clean and he closed his eyes against the scratching sea sponges. He would not tremble and he would not shout at the wash of cold over his shoulders. It would be no way to embark on the noble duty of a knight.

The robes did little to shut out the cold, but again he did not permit it to enter his mind. Before the priest, he kneeled. He waited with infinite patience to be pronounced— _De benedictio novi militis_. He stood before a priest and one of his initiate trainers for the rite.

“Say the words,” his initiate trainer said.

“I do, in the name of God and the Saints, swear to honor the Order of the Stars.”

“To what ends shall you serve?” the priest asked.

“For the protection of the weak and helpless. To know purpose. To serve my lords with honor and duty.”

“How shall you accomplish your ends?”

“By fealty to my lord, by my deeds, and by my purity.”

“Be recognized.”

His initiate trainer held the flat steel against his neck, then brought the blade in front of his face. Steve kissed the sword.

He rose, at last, a Knight.

Steve thought he would feel different. He knew the emotions—pride, relief, accomplishment, and hope. Yet he felt just the man he had been when he had followed the high path to the gates of the Order, promising he would follow every step it took to become one of them. They did not care that he had already been to war. He was a commoner, and as such had to prove himself worthy of elevation. It was work as tedious as cleaning and as hard and exhilarating as days of heavy combat training, study, and testing.

He remained the same man throughout. Many fears plagued him, and the doubt of what quality such a man could ever have reigned as the master of them all.

In private chambers, he trimmed and combed his beard after the month of neglect, feeling neater for the effort, making it curve around his jaw as it was meant to. He dressed in his braes of white linen over which he wore leather trousers, and a heavily stitched leather jerkin over a white long-sleeved undershirt. After so long in the vigil, his old clothes felt strange, but they were all he had. By the time he had slipped on his boots, a page and arrived to tell him to come. They had already found for him a lord to serve, and it came with a title he never thought he’d ever be given.

#

The Royal Disease made the prince’s blood thin, more like water than the stuff of life, and it had been harder to make a levy to hold it in. Bedridden for a week, he had not left his apartment. No scalable window or weakened door could be left without a guard, so ordered His Majesty the King. By the time he again was summoned to the Red Court, some of James’ strength had returned, but harried he remained.

As he stood before the king his skin was like so much bleached cheesecloth over a green and purple sheen. He was tired and faint but he made his shoulders square, though it pained him. King Alexander had not gone to see the prince when the physicians pulled him from death’s door. The day they finally saw each other again, the king seemed mildly inconvenienced by his cousin’s lateness.

King Alexander almost never sat in the royal seat which was reserved for him in the Great Hall, unless they were dining or hosting guests from afar. A rich tapestry lined the wall behind the seat that was meant to be his, a red field loomed with chivalric deeds. He stood with advisors at the end of the table to the right, the walls there merely decorated with ruddy cloth to keep out the chill. Signs of approaching war laid on the wood—maps, accountings of currency, supplies, and manpower. But most of all, the presence of wine. It seemed to be doing little to steady the nerves of the harried advisors that accompanied Alexander everywhere, all the better to fail to affect their king with their counsel.

“James,” the king said, beckoning to him. “Come. Let me look at you.”

James risked one more side glance at the contents of the table, made a place in his mind for the memory of it, and stood before Alexander.

The accident of their relation had given Alexander the rule of land, which he had nearly rejected, not believing himself worthy of a title with such esteem. Yet when he knew he was the only caregiver of the prince, not yet grown and likely too sickly to survive, he took on himself the responsibility. Or, that is what the criers said, and the monks, and the knights, and the courtiers. James himself could not know _what_ he could say of his cousin, the king. He only knew that he could not refuse when he was beckoned forward. Alexander took him by the chin, evening the posture of his head. He saw something in James’ face, smiled, and nodded some quiet approval.

“You have color in your face again, cousin,” Alexander said.

James for a long time didn’t know if he was meant to reply to that, since he had a perfectly clear mirror that contradicted the king’s pronouncement. He looked to the side, seeing the rest of his advisors and learning from the language of their bodies that he was meant to respond.

“You’ve provided me with the best physicians,” James said. “As always, I am in your debt, Your Majesty.”

“After all these years,” Alexander said. “It feels strange for you to call me Your Majesty.”

“I’m sorry, Y—I’m sorry, cousin.”

There was a slight, satisfied nod.

“I wanted to see you so it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Alexander said.

“What surprise?”

“Did you think that we wouldn’t take action after such a brazen attempt on your life? You are to be ruler. We will not lose you to whatever minor lord wishes to use your death to sit on a splintery throne they have no right to. None but we few understand the responsibility of it, while others believe it an path to riches and power. What’s more, I don’t mean to lapse on the debt I owe your mother and father. And if we lose you, we undo all the work that prepares the world for _your_ reign. You are the past, and you are the future. To preserve this, my council and I have hired for you some protection.”

“Protection?” James asked, unable to keep the word from coming out of his mouth.

“A knight, from the Order of the Stars. He will attend to you wherever you go. Knight-Captain Rogers is one of their best, I have been told. A prince deserves no less than that.”

James wanted to open his mouth to protest, but what could he do? It was the will of the king. What’s more he would tolerate the constant presence of one man much better than to have every door in his apartment manned by nameless guards who never spoke unless it was in the negative or positive. It would be better, even if it would be some ceremonious fool no better than a scarecrow with epaulettes. Some part of his cousin’s concern remained abrasive, but he knew he could not try and find what was out of place while the king stood before him. He had a way of showing his disapproval when it was clear how deeply James was thinking.

“As always,” James said. “I defer to your wisdom.”

“Good,” Alexander said. “He will be waiting in your cabinet.”

James again looked to the advisors at the table. The maps were of the outer kingdoms, the vassalages owned by lords who swore fealty to the Red Court, to Alexander, and to James. Some kingdoms were washed in red paint, others in blue. He had stared for too long and Alexander caught him.

The king beckoned him forward. When he followed it was as if on a layer of glass, knowing at any moment a shard could pierce the soles of his shoes.

“These are the times we live in,” Alexander said. “Do you see these lands in blue? We must watch them very closely. If you allow these minor lords to act like spoiled children, they will believe they have a right to all we’ve built here. You are the future, and I mean to preserve that future. You will not inherit a fractured kingdom. Protect yourself here, and I will protect you out there.”

James narrowed his eyes and nodded, for what else could he do about the unease in his belly which fought the long-seeded knowledge in his head? He did the only thing he could think of to ease some of his doubt. He copied the map into his mind, in case he had need of it but would never see the paper again. He was at least sure of the cache in his mind of things the king did not believe he remembered, or had ever seen.

#

Inside the fortifications of the castle, Steve felt the pageantry of the ceremonial suit of armor a bit gauche. It was all necessary to impress a prince, he supposed. His tunic was not made of leather, but ruddy silk with a golden brocaded threading. The tunic was only visible around his neck and under his arms, for he wore a placard and gorget etched with a star. Very ceremonial, small spaulders laid on his shoulders with minimal armor down his arms and his faulds were made of blue cloth, covering what little there was to show of his dark blue trousers which peeked from his metal boots. He held his helmet on his hip, forgetting that he was supposed to wear it in the sight of the prince. His shield, at least, was his own. It was a round buckler the size of his torso, etched with a star, the silver metal washed in blue. That he had clasped to his back.

The door opened and he started, turning to see the attendants making the way for the prince. He had stared too long into the blazing fire in the cabinet’s fireplace. Lost in the imagining of the moment, he had forgotten to make it as he should have been, according to the standards of his order.

His lips parted, taking in a sharp, desperate breath as veins thudded in his neck. The prince’s face was bloodless but for his lips, which were crimson and coral. That face was framed by long, black hair and the eyes which sought him out were dark blue, dabbed in the light of the fireplace. He had heard the prince described as foolish, spoiled, and sickly. Yet all Steve could drink in was his beauty, the sharp angles of his cheek and jaws, the way his mouth looked when his lips parted to speak. Heat pressed against Steve’s cheeks, against his chest, the fire that stoked it licking at his heart. In the heat and the thrumming, each heartbeat felt like something new. He’d never recalled such complete knowledge of what it felt like to have a beating heart. He could not be sure if his heart had _ever_ beaten before.

The prince assessed him, from his boots to the top of his head, raising his brows. Of all things, he seemed to be pleased, and relieved.

Steve realized he was staring. He looked down at his helmet, turned it in his hands a few times before realizing it was too late to put it on, because the prince was supposed to see the full regalia before he took it off. It was much too late for that, and so he placed it on his hip once again.

“Your highness,” Steve said, forgetting the rest of what he was meant to say. Instead, he bowed.

“We’re about to spend every waking moment together,” said Prince Buchanan. He made a false, ceremonious gesture. “I hereby give you permission not to bow every time I walk in the room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What is your name?”

“Knight-Captain Rogers.”

“Let’s try that again.”

Steve smiled, and then struggled to repress it, but the amusement lingered in his eyes. He was grateful to see the prince had the same, wicked humor in his face.

“Steve,” he said.

“That’s an odd name for a knight,” said the prince.

“All of the gallant ones were taken.”

The prince’s laugh was true, which was fortunate, because if he were the spoiled royalty Steve had been warned about, he might have lost his tongue, if they didn’t take the whole head. Instead he got to enjoy the flash of teeth and the roll of his head as the prince relaxed in his presence. Steve fixed on the prince’s face to be sure that when he lifted his head up, Steve did not shy from the royal gaze.

“Oh thank god,” the prince said. “They at least sent me one with a sense of humor.”

“Would your lordship mind telling his humble servant how I might address him?” Steve asked, barely containing a grin at his own ceremony.

The prince smiled again, lips curving up around the word he was about to utter. That smile fell, first from his eyes then slowly from his lips. Steve knew the sight of an almost-utterance, some other name he was about to receive, but which was lost as the prince thought better of it. Light fell from Steve’s eyes as he remembered his station, and that he stood before a prince. He brought his shoulders to their correct position and forced the casual amusement from his eyes.

“I am Prince Buchanan, last of my house, heir to the throne,” the prince said, casting his eyes to the ground, as if exhausted from the effort of saying his own name. “You may call me James.”


	2. Chapter 2

James knew his desire when he clapped eyes on the knight. Perhaps he might have been saved if the fool had kept his helmet on, rather than rolled it clumsily in his hands which, though strong, seemed to be completely useless. He had to drink in the sight of him, so poorly wearing the pageantry. James found it to be a sign that there must be a good character past the wondrously decorative metal case he was trapped inside.

The common name made a sting in his heart, but he had long learned to let that pass in a mere second. Knight-Captain Rogers. Steve. And then the Knight had asked him what name he wanted. He had no reason. He’d been called Prince Buchanan by complete strangers, but this man extended a courtesy, as if it were common. He could not remember the last time he was simply asked what he _liked_ to be called. He smiled around the name he was about to speak.

_Remember who you are._

He saved himself the pain by the merest fraction of time. James would do.

“You can take that off,” James said.           

He gestured to the armor before lowering himself into a chair near the fire. Standing for too long was still too much effort, but he had hoped sitting down made him look nothing other than bored.

Steve put his hand on his placard, as if he had forgotten the massive weight he was carrying. James wondered if a man so large and broad, trained in combat, who carried swords, hammers, and shields in long campaigns, even noticed the encumbrance of metal. James leaned back in his chair, finding that he enjoyed watching Steve work out if he was serious, or a spoiled, capricious little prince.

“Is that allowed?” Steve asked, nearly in a whisper.

“I am the prince,” James said, gesturing to the room around him. “And this is my domain. I don’t even have an allotment of land, so—well, I have to have authority _somewhere_. You should take off your armor. Nobody’s going to send an army to my apartment. Not today, in any case.”

He swallowed his lips as he witnessed Steve blush, slightly shifting his feet as if in a dance. Perhaps he could not enjoy the knight as he wished he could, but there was _this_. Or, at least, the promise of something other than another servant he was barely allowed to talk to.

“Is there a room I might, um,” Steve began.

“Here is just as good as any other room,” James said. “Unless you’re indecent under there. You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ll probably see me in worse states. We should get used to indecency.”

Steve’s nervousness abated as he retired the completely non-functional armor. James summoned a servant in order to help him with the task. It was laborious and tedious. James found he wore the underclothes better, even though they were still as lush as James’ own robes. He did not miss the heavy plates, but he did wear a short dagger on his belt and placed his shield within reaching distance.

James remembered his scheme for the night. He swallowed as he thought of the man standing as a wall between him and the night. He adjusted for time and the necessity of silence. For the moment all he could do was order wine for the both of them. They were brought a decanter. When the full wine cup was placed in front of Steve, he moved away from it.

“Do you mind if I refuse?” Steve asked.

“Would you do me a favor?” James asked.

“Anything.”

“Pretend you’re drinking so this doesn’t look so bad.”

Steve’s smile was soft, without judgement, and he nodded. He wrapped his hands around the glass and held it casually in his hands, as if merely at a table with other knights, none of them marked higher than each other. James lifted his glass in thanks. His breath was liberated from the weight of low spirits. He had asked for such casual behavior from servants before. At last his confusing circumstances brought him someone brave enough to speak to him as a man. James drank deep. The wine was honeyed and tasted of berries and branches. It would be a wonderful substance to succumb to as it outweighed the blood in his veins.

“Is your solar to your liking?” James asked.

“I’m not used to having a room to myself,” Steve said. “I’m more accustomed to what amounts to a hay pile on the floor. I wonder what it will feel like to sleep with my head on feathers.”

“Oh, they poke you and get infested with pests. I’ll get you something else.”

“It’s really not a problem.”

“I have more pillows than I will ever need. A closet full; rooms full of cushions and pillows. It’s embarrassing. Take the gift.”

“People would say—“

“What people? Who cares about people? Why should you care about people who don’t think you deserve a soft place to lay your head?”

Steve sighed through his nose, eyes heavy as they grew warmer.

“How can I refuse?” Steve said.

“You can’t,” James said, the raise in his eyebrows his punctuation. “Aren’t I a tyrant?”

James had to get his smile under control before he could take another drink from his cup. Steve returned the smile. The man was smart, and no simpering climber. After all, he smiled. Behind the curtain of stone, most were too afraid to show any manner of casual joy. That would be suspicious. James felt warmth come back into his body. In his heart he knew it was not the fire he sat next to, or even the wine filling his belly. He wished it would all stop, and then perhaps the presentiment of fear wouldn’t ruin the moment by stinging him.

His suffering might end if he could stop staring, taking in the handsome jaw with a well-groomed beard, a face set with kindly animal eyes, and a lip which James hoped _someone_ would press upon. The thought of Steve’s life completely dedicated to his duties while those lips remained unkissed saddened him more than not being able to do it himself.

“When did you swear yourself into the king’s service?” James asked.

“An hour ago,” Steve said, laughing. James could tell from the tone that it was something absurdly new which he had only recently accepted as real. He felt sorry for the blow he was about to deal, but pretending otherwise would be the cruel thing.

“You understand that makes you Alexander’s knight, not mine.”

Steve’s eyes widened and he saw his mouth go slack again, but it was different. James couldn’t see how low the reminder had struck him behind a veil of folded lashes. It was enough that it was there.

“He is the king to whom I swore my oath,” Steve said. “But the only duty he gave me was to keep you safe. If I fail in that, even if my king releases me, then I’m not a knight.”

James couldn’t pull in any more breath. His hand shook and he had to put his cup on his lap. He wondered if the chalk-faced assassin had snuck in when they weren’t looking and stabbed his heart with a sharp, thin blade.

“Then I feel very safe in your care,” James said, trying to swallow the strain on his face.

Steve had seen something in the strain, but hadn’t yet come to understand. To hide his face, James lifted his wine again, tipping the cup to hide his face. The hot, sticky drink went down his chest like a river of fire and at once released a plume of drunkenness which filled his head. He exhaled a breath that was heavy as the smoke of a vineyard on fire.

Steve lifted himself off the chair across from him. It only took one stride for him to be inches away. James recoiled as instinct became his master, knowing no one came that close to Prince Buchanan but the King, to hold up his chin and to peer at him to look for that quality which he so despised. Steve was stronger than the king, larger, broader, in his sudden closeness like a tower. James could only make himself like a statue that perhaps might not be moved upon.

In a delicate grasp, Steve took the cup from James’ hands and set it down on a table that was out of James’ reach.

 _Control yourself_ , whispered a sharp, angry voice in his head which he could not say was his own.

He felt the pressure of Steve’s hand on his shoulders. The impropriety, some part of him summoned. Yet that was only what he imagined would come from the voice of courtiers. All James could do was stare into the swirling patterns in Steve’s tunic as he tried to recall the last time hands were laid on him which had no motive but to reassure.

“There’s no point in swearing to protect a prince,” Steve said. “Not if I let you get soused and wake up with a pounding head.”

James’ laugh came from his belly and the skin on his cheekbones twitched before he could control his smile.

Steve departed, just moving into the next room where he knew servants were working on the business of the evening. Dimly, James heard him ask when supper would arrive, for the sun was getting low and the prince was unwell. James was glad the knight couldn’t see his face. His brow was low, face breaking into unfocused sorrow, though he was unable to summon the tears that would relieve him. He had to let himself be as he was, just for a little while, before he had to wipe it away. It had only been a touch. It felt so unlike Alexander’s, or even his attendants. Not even the master of the wardrobe’s touch felt real.

He wished the strange, kind knight had never touched him, had never smiled at him, had not shown the infuriating quality of speaking to him as an equal. If he had been left alone, he could have had the blissful ignorance of his own starvation.

#

Prince Buchanan was restless. He’d not become fidgety until after dinner. He eyed the windows in sharp, short glances. The prince had thought Steve was too occupied to notice, but he had. Other than Steve, the Prince hadn’t eyes for anything else. Steve recognized anticipation. Perhaps some liaison. It would be very typical, but his rooms were high up. There was a balcony, but it wasn’t scalable from below. Steve had checked, rigorously, for handholds, hidden ladders that could go unnoticed without a siege party, even some decoration that could become strategy for an assassin. There was nothing.

The ritual for bed consisted mostly of undressing the heavy red brocade with softer, cotton robes. They weren’t unlike the robes Steve had worn to be initiated, but his had been plain. Even the clothes which royalty wore to bed had some wondrous, unnecessary detail. The seams were punctuated by chording, patterns of vines and berries stitched into hems. His collar was even stiffened, circling his neck.

“Finding your duties tedious?” Prince Buchanan asked, looking over his shoulder.

“No,” Steve whispered with a small shake of his head.

“You can go to your solar. At some point you get to sleep, you know.”

“I will. When I lock all of the doors and your servants have gone. Sorry.”

James had to bite his lip to keep whatever was in his head to himself. It made his lips redder, even amongst the color that had returned after a robust supper.

The servants departed and Steve checked every door twice. James had tucked himself under a heavy blanket and a group of candles sat on a tray on his bedside table. He was holding a book close to his chest, bound in red leather and decorated with gold leaf. Steve walked to the bed and leaned over the prince. James peered up at him, seeming to expect something. There was a mote of fear, but more than that, a fascination. Steve forced his breath to still.

He collected the book from James’ hands.

“Goodnight, my lord,” Steve said, and snuffed the candles.

Steve’s solar was connected to the prince’s by a door. It was the only one between Steve and the prince that would remain unlocked. He sat on a chair next to it—heavy with the cushions which James insisted he be given—and began his vigil. He sat back and rested his eyes, knowing he only expected a few hours.  

Two hours after nightfall, as he expected.

He stirred at the sound of footsteps. His rest had put strength back into his body and he sharply inhaled and rubbed his face, rising. He lifted the door as he opened it and the hinges were silent. He’d oiled them just for that purpose. He caught a glimpse of the tail of a dark robe as the prince exited onto the balcony.

The prince was leaning over the rail of the balcony. He surveyed the night, unbothered by the crisp coldness. He’d just lit a tall lamp and he was brushed on one side by a yellow glow. Steve knew he had been quiet and the huff of displeased breath was deliberate, the gentlest way of announcing himself. The prince whirled around. His eyes were nearly black. They were wide, scared, but he blinked the fear away. There was a small shake of his head. Steve looked at what he was holding. The red and gold book was in his hand.

“Please,” James begged. “I won’t see something like this again in my life.”

Steve couldn’t hold on to his amused annoyance. His arms went down to his sides. He held out his hands, showing he didn’t mean to do anything. The prince blinked away the remainder of his fear, and Steve could see him berating himself.

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being murdered,” Steve said.

The prince smiled at the derision in Steve’s face. James’ shoulders fell and he held the book lower. It still seemed to anchor him to the ground.

“Do you want to see something?” James asked. His face was hopeful. He wanted Steve to say yes more than he wanted Steve to let him alone.

Steve came forward and joined James on the edge of the balcony, standing close enough to peer at the book. James’ finger held a place and he opened the book. It was a woodcut of stars. He was holding an almanac.

“I’m sure it’s tonight,” James said. “It’s happened before, twice I think. If it’s not twice I’m out here for nothing. Of course, looking at the stars for no reason isn’t exactly a terrible way to waste your time.”

Steve leaned forward on the balcony and James followed suit. They shared a long quiet as the cloudy sky was just clear enough for them to peek at the sky between ashen-gray clouds. The night was still, and they couldn’t even hear night animals.

“Look!” Steve said. He pointed to the sky, where a star had shot across it.

“Did you make a wish?” James asked, laughing. “It’s okay if you did.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Some things you never leave behind you when you grow up.”

“I think we wish because we all think they’re rare. They really aren’t. They only seem rare if you don’t spend a lot of time looking up. Some nights they’re heavier than others. Some nights we get lucky and they shower down. So I’ve noticed things. The showers seem to have a pattern, but day to day? No such thing. Do you want to hear a heresy?”

“Always.”

“I don’t think the heavens are fixed.”

“As heresies go, that’s a big one, you know.”

“Not fixed, but predictable. And if I’m right—“

James’ eyes went wide as he saw it. Steve followed his gaze.

Steve had always read about blazing comets as red and orange, bursting like fire thrown from heaven. It was the color of seawater changing from shallow to deep, the bright blue of the tail streaming from its green head. The faint thing became brighter. Its path was slow. They were both content to watch it meander past their world.

He felt the prince nudge him with his shoulder.

“Are you scared?” James asked.

“Why would I be scared?” Steve asked.

“Everybody’s afraid of comets. I looked again and again. More suffering happened _before_ this comet the last two times it’s appeared. The only thing that changed was that people were more careful, and we actually noticed that things were horrible.”

“I did always think it was strange. We name our orders and kingdoms after stars and then we get scared when one comes to grace us. Maybe we don’t like it so much when we think of the responsibility of what we swore to them. If there’s anything up there at all.”

“The next few years are going to be a nightmare. You do realize that? Panic and prophecies until another sign says we’re forgiven. Or until we just _forget_.”

“Not me. It’ll be impossible for me to forget a night like this.”

He turned to James, who was staring at him with a quiet softness. Steve couldn’t help but see how his dark, thick robe was swirled with silver thread. The silver picked up a blue sheen and he looked like he was wrapped in the silvery, starry night. All that seemed to exist of him was a face framed by darkness. A great star was blazing across the sky and he’d just caught Prince Buchanan staring at _him_.

Bathed in blue, green, and golden fire, the black of the sky wrapping them in dark velvet, the forecast of doom was forgotten. If Steve had not turned his face back to the sky, so too would have his honor. 


	3. Chapter 3

All the lords and priests, great or minor, had requested a session of court. King Alexander had refused.

James was present, steadier for the solid presence of Steve behind his shoulder. That day his armor was silver and etched with blue, his broad shield on his back as if he had been born with it attached. The long dagger at his waist seemed just as devoid of use as the sparse, silver, stand-in for battle gear.

As for the other attendants of the small meeting, they were of the most loyal and near lords, his counsel, the priests that attended to the citizens of the castle and the king’s knight-commanders. James tried to pay attention to them, but they each seemed as interchangeable as the next. They were high-born, elite, or won their titles dearly. He thought they looked small while his knight stood by, common-born with diligent eyes.

Alexander did wear his crown, but it was an afterthought to him. No matter what James thought of his cousin, he had no bearings of a usurper king. He wore the crown little, only in important matters where he had to be seen as stately. It was borne as a responsibility rather than a privilege. That is how he seemed, the golden crown matte, the light refusing to glint off it, as if out of respect. What’s more it helped his brow become all the weightier as he listened to his counsel. If he found them helpful or not, he still listened to all of them before he held up his hand, silencing the babble of arguing courtiers.

They quieted and James glanced back and forth to see who was quieting out of fear, out of respect, and who could barely stifle their own speech.

“I’m not worried about superstitions,” Alexander said. “I’m worried about what talk of omens and new ages is doing to my subjects. There were two fires to the north in the night, and that’s not a coincidence. Now you could all squawk like chickens some more, or you could tell me how the kingdom is faring.”

“Majesty,” said one lord. “It’s not just that the common folk are up in arms. They’re incited. It’s as we feared. Many of the lords to the north have allied. They may come up with any manner of prophecy to rally. I don’t know what they mean to do, but somehow they will try to use the comet to prove you were never meant to rule.”

“I wasn’t. But they don’t seem to understand the meaning of stewardship—and no wonder, half of their lands were ill-gotten. If they want to show up their true colors, their downfall is their own making. We only must become armed. Prince Buchanan—“

Every eye in the room found him, some of them wide and curious, others sharp and malcontented. The only gaze which freed him of his fearfulness lingered over his right shoulder. James lifted himself up by fractions, but he felt less invisible for the effort.

“Your Majesty?” James asked.

“You know something of current thought concerning the heavens,” the king continued. “How much of this has to do with these heretical notions?”

“I think—“ James had to collect his words. Consequences followed words, and he knew the truth of that more than almost anyone else. When he looked beyond Alexander and not right at his still, expectant eyes, he could say it. “I think that this climate of terror has nothing to do with the comet and everything to do with allowing new thought to be muzzled. It’s what happens when we let ourselves believe a comet has anything to do with us at all. If we want this to end, the greatest weapon we would have against it is to allow the freedom of ideas.”

The attending court had already been hushed, but now they were voiceless, stunned, unable to reply. James risked a glance to his right. He swore he saw in the bearing and face of the knight a swelling of pride. Even if he were imagining it, the struggle to keep it from transforming his face was colossal. Smiling in front of a cadre of lords concerned with the possibility of rebellion and war would not have been wise. Yet he could not account that with Steve there he could finally speak as he wanted—for what else could they do?

Alexander nodded, sober. He looked to the rest of his counsel, who could not find their voices, individual or collective.

“Whatever wisdom I have,” Alexander said. “It tells me we should think on more than one aspect. There is the practical, the immediate—that will be the task for lords and kings. We can move an army into the north and be home within a fortnight. Here at home, we’ll set another task.”

Alexander stepped closer to James, who found it easier to be before his cousin if he did not blink, focusing as if taking in a lesson.

“Prince Buchanan,” the king said. “Whether we believe in the heresy or not, we have to know as much as possible about it. While I am in the north, take steady care of the throne. You may as well get used to that thorny old thing. When I return, bring a collection of what these ideas could mean to us.”

King Alexander clapped him on the shoulder. A shaky huff of air exited James’ nose, the only sign he would allow of the rush of pain that followed ripping flesh and splitting stitches. He could be imagining the sensation of welling blood, but he wouldn’t know until the counsel was over—the black and gold vest under heavy fur and red silk his only saving grace. He could hear his own teeth as he bit down. He could only nod, trying to meet the king’s eyes. His cousin could not have done that through malice—could he have? James had to bundle up the thought for another day, away from a staring retinue.

The king reached up and held his chin, lifting his head until his jaw was parallel to the floor. He stared so intently that James could only hold that gaze for a few moments until he found some point in the distance—the red banner behind the throne. Like a leaden weight had been dropped into it, his stomach was heavy. Dread welled up at the deepness of the color. He saw it, was wrapped in it, and in it he found a reminder.

The king nodded, as if pleased with what he found there.

The rest of the council session lasted barely a minute—for which James had counted every blessing. The decision had been made and the time had come for action. James had already felt superfluous by the time he was dismissed.

To his eyes the hall was not a hall but a tunnel. It became round around the edges with an encroaching blackness. Pain cracked out of his mouth. He turned until his back met the wall and he put his hand underneath his shoulder.

“James,” Steve said, sharp, a question into itself.

He saw Steve reach for him—James grasped his forearm before that hand could touch him. Strength had fled from James’ grip, but the knight had come no closer. He was going to tell Steve that there was nothing the matter. There was agony on that face, as if it encompassed his whole being. He wondered how long it had been there. The knight had been present after he felt his old wound tear open. James wondered how, though he had been unable to afford to show it, Steve had _seen_ it. It would be foolish to think the man hired to be his protector, aware of every shadow and unseen danger, would not have known there was something wrong.

James unclenched his grip by degrees. Steve lowered his hand to the gleaming silver buttons of the vest. James let him open it and peel the fabric aside with delicacy that seemed unusual of a man of his size and stature. It turned out his large hands were more nimble than they appeared, with more skill and grace. They were not, as it turned out, made only to hold weapons of war.

So the pool of moisture under his shoulder was not sweat after all. Steve hissed at the sight of it, almost as if he were making the sounds of pain on James’ behalf. He was glad one of them was free to do so.

“I’ll get the physician,” Steve said in a breath.

“No!” James whispered.

Steve jerked as if his feet had been glued to the ground. He searched James, the question there in the upward curve of his eyebrows.

“The physician reports to the king,” James said. “And he’s a gossip. I don’t need schemers whispering to each other that I was wounded from an hour of _talking_.”

The full brunt of his meaning hit Steve all at once, and James could tell he saw the fallout. The knight’s wit was quick to pick up on the vast tapestry of consequences. They had sent him no dull idealist, eager to please. He doubted Alexander knew of this, or else he would have never been allowed to take the oath. They would have found some other knight whose only concern was to obey.

Steve peered around the corner like a spy, taking in the sight of something James couldn’t see. James read on his face that the hallway path they were about to take was not empty.

“Is there another way to your apartment?” Steve asked.

James nodded. He lead, his arm pressed staunchly into his reopened wound. They found a small door, barely visible unless you were looking for it, which would only be the case for a servant. James was no stranger to sneaking, but had not done so for many years. Yet he still remembered the dark corners and skinny passages that a less wise princeling had used when returning to his home after fostering from afar. They swept in and out of rooms, sweeping by unaware servants or waiting for attendants and courtiers to pass by.

“Wait,” Steve said when they were in a small, empty room of stores.

Steve hefted off his shield—which made a strange sound when it dinged against the stone wall. With a click his ceremonial pauldron fell, dropping from his left shoulder like an unclasped necklace. James’ eyes widened as he saw more and more layers of clothing removed from the top half of Steve’s body. He stopped when he was naked from the waist up. James was so busy staring at the torso that had been hidden under silk and metal that he missed what Steve was doing. The tear of cotton fabric ripped in the air as Steve turned his luxurious gift from the court of King Alexander into bandage strips. James had thought the armor and robes he wore were what made him so broad. Those accoutrements must have been thin, or he wouldn’t have fit through a doorway.

Steve opened James’ coat again, apologizing, and James felt faint to have him so near—or perhaps that was the loss of blood. Steve packed the dear cloth into the wound and apologized for how it stung. With the other pieces of shirt he tied the thick, folded cotton in place, winding it around the shoulder and chest. It was temporary, but still snug. James wondered if he should have minded the way Steve had grasped him, holding by the shoulders and waist to steer him where he needed him. Either way, he let the knight do whatever he pleased.

“I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the pain,” Steve said.

James let his eyes wander down from the broad chest to the thickly muscled belly which emerged from a pair of trousers held in place by a thick and tight belt. He had never seen a piece of leather hold so dearly to hips which eloquently pointed to the fact of what lay below them.

“I’m fine,” James whispered.

“Good,” Steve nodded, collecting his outer robes and throwing them on again, securing his shield to himself again with uncanny quickness. “Servants could come in at any moment.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

He showed Steve the rest of the path to his apartment, even the little passages that even the servants didn’t know and never used. He was sure no one knew about them because nobody else went into the priests’ library and looked for the history of the castle’s architecture. They popped out into his apartment after two minutes of wandering and double-backing at the sight of servants or courtiers. James was relieved to find his apartment already warmed by a fire, with the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen nearby.

“You should have told me about the secret passageways,” Steve joked.

James laughed as he sat, glad of the warmth, though he was sweating.

“I didn’t know you, did I?” James asked.

“And now you do?”

“You liked the secret passageways, that’s all I _need_ to know.”

Steve had to work very hard to bite down the smile that wanted to burst, and so shook his head instead. He steered James into a chair and said he would be back in a moment. When Steve returned he had a basket in one hand and a basin of water in the other. He laid out several small cuts of thick cloth and bandages. He began to weave thick, black thread into the eye of a mercifully thin needle. James had to breathe in sharply at the sight of it, but thought again of the pain of the open wound.

“This wound is nearly a week old,” Steve said, pressing experimentally with the edges of it. “It hasn’t healed. It’s like it’s only just happened.”

“The royal disease,” James seethed. “Some forefather of mine died on a battlefield once just because his blood wouldn’t stop up. I didn’t even get into a fight.”

“You were stabbed by an assassin and survived,” Steve said in response to the bitterness in James’ laugh. “You’ve already been in a fight.”

“That’s not—that isn’t what happened. It was a stupid mistake. It’s my fault.”

“Of course it isn’t. Why would it be your fault?”

#

Steve hoped the question would nudge the prince in the right direction. Long ago, he had learned to get his answers sideways—baiting a person with something meant to correct his own stupidity or ignorance won out more confessions than any threat ever could. Something sparked in Prince Buchanan as he asked why being stabbed would have been his own fault. Steve began to treat the wound as he waited for the rest of the story.

From the look on his face, the prince’s mind had gone far into the plane of the past. He watched for the story James had constructed to illustrate his own stupidity. The prince rapidly blinked and returned to his own cabinet. He smiled, but as if he had swallowed something bitter and had to pretend it was not.

“It was stupid,” James confessed.

“Don’t tell me you fell onto the knife by accident,” Steve said in a smile.

“No,” James said, catching the smile. “It was _truly, truly_ stupid. The assassin was meant for me, but when he tried to kill a servant—I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t even know the man. What was the point in blocking the killing blow meant for another when he was only killing the servant to get to _me_? I’m a very vapid little princeling, aren’t I? It doesn’t make much sense, otherwise.”

It didn’t.

Steve thought about it as he threaded the new stitches. The assassin had not just failed in his mission. The prince had put himself in the path of the blade and the assassin had not finished his task. The wound was deep, but it was still something which time would mend, even if the prince’s sickness drew the process out. All the assassin would have had to do was twist for disfigurement, so the blood couldn’t stop for anything, or simply pull the dagger back, slice his throat, stab his stomach, or brutally jab it into the heart or head. Even poison on the blade would make more sense.

And yet the assassin had merely stabbed him and vanished. The only reason an assassin would fail so spectacularly was if it were his purpose. By a morbid accident, James had allowed himself a wound. He could even call that accident happy, for a piece of a tapestry had threaded just enough for an image to form.

The prince had put himself between the assassin—his own assassin—and a servant whose name he hadn’t even known. Such character revealed the nature of those around him. He only prayed he could conceal what warm devotion the prince had summoned in him.

He pressed one hand against the plane between the collarbone and shoulder to steady the prince before making the final tug on the last stitch. There was a flinch in the flesh, but again no noise of protest. With both hands he looped the thread into a knot. He had forgotten the scissor and wouldn’t risk using his large dagger. He leaned close and bit the string cleanly, smelling tinny copper and sharp musk.

He caught the sight of the pale, coral lips, their corners beginning to bruise. They were near, as the prince had turned his head to watch him bite the thick, black thread. He stared up into the pale, sleepy face from where he sat, lower than the prince as he poised on a stool. He flicked his eyes up to meet the princes’, which had recovered some of their dark blue, a light kindled in them again.

“You’re much gentler than my physician,” the prince whispered.

“That doesn’t speak highly of your physician,” Steve said, matching the tone. “I learned to stitch in a battlefield.” 

“Well, if I ever find myself surrounded by carnage, you had best be there.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

He had not meant it to come out in a breath, only understood because he was sure the prince knew what he would say. He could swear the prince leaned closer, but it might have only been his hair falling from behind his ears. Steve wanted nothing more than to hide his face from the world in the privacy between those black curtains which fell beside his sharp cheeks. Lost in childhood thinking, he wondered if a kiss, only allowed in such privacy, could heal the wound under his hand.

He had made an oath. And his fingers were still slick with blood.

By turning his face away, he felt some change in the prince. Not gone far away as before, only retreated back into his station.

Steve set aside the cloths which were thick with red and supplies himself with fresh ones. He washed away the red streaks and pools, watching the basin of water begin to turn pink with every wrung. He packed a cotton square above the stitches and again wound cloth around his chest and shoulders, as tightly as he could. For his own sake, he made himself believe that his hand lingered over the bandage to make sure it was secure.

James put his hand over Steve’s. Between them they acknowledged the truth of it—they had a rare trust. For all the barriers between a commoner and a prince of direct royal descent, they knew something of each other. Steve’s lips parted as James’ did and they felt breath as if one, though their lips did not touch.

“I have an idea,” James said, the corners of his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Am I going to like it?” Steve asked with some of the same humor, the only thing that could banish the desperate hope that had been kindled in the wicked flash of teeth.

“It depends. How would you like to be my conspirator?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“What do you know about fairs?”


	4. Chapter 4

Prince Buchanan had never looked more like a lord as he did while wandering the grounds of the fair. The smirk he wore to celebrate his own work was not as contained as he thought it was. The chill did not bother him, to Steve’s observation. Though Steve was worried about his illness, there was no need. The prince was wrapped in a coat that ended at the shins and heavy with dark brown fur, and he had traded in silk for thick woven cloth with a simpler pattern of green and dull orange foliage over a field of dark blue. More than that, his fascination and pride was so great he doubted that he would notice anything as distracting as his body. When full of wonder, his eyes were big enough to drink in the world, and every new attraction was a wonder.

Steve was over his right shoulder, only further than his usual distance because the prince was flocked with his eager collaborators—lords from the south of the kingdom, those that were not at war, and a retinue of priests and other wise men who were only too glad to help their future king. They seemed especially eager, if Steve’s observations were correct. James was the sort of king they wished to one day serve. Under the plate of his starry silver gorget, he felt his heart swell. He hoped it didn’t show in his cheeks, or that at least everyone took him for wind-chafed.

There was a little pride left over for himself. Prince Buchannan had an uncanny ability to find the exhibitions of new knowledge and sciences, but they both acknowledged most folk would come for the tournaments. Steve made sure they were good ones. There was a joust, though that was his least favorite. A ring for mock battles was set up, something Steve was looking forward to. Then in addition, there was archery, falconry, and horseracing. James wanted to make sure he saw the last—after all, it was the sport of kings. It would only be appropriate.

Departing from the lords with a hearty goodbye, James followed a row of stalls manned by alkemists. James inquired about powders and metals of all sorts. As a man mixed ingredients for an especially dazzling light cutting demonstration, Steve leaned into James.

“You should be proud of yourself,” Steve said, adding at the last minute. “Your highness.”

“This belongs to you, too,” James said, eyes warm and deep blue in the better light of day. “My worthless royal ass can’t reinstitute an autumn fair at the last moment by myself. Especially not while the keeper of the keys to the kingdom is called away.”

The reminder of Alexander’s still-looming shadow was scratching at him, as if tormenting him from under the metal plates. The ease in which the folk and court alike had slid so gladly into some semblance of hope once their good, wise king had left had becoming heavier in his mind. With each day, the weight mounted. He took the burden of being the one to worry, just to preserve what else he saw grow stronger before him ever day.

James stared in wonder as the alkemist created a break in the pattern of light, bringing a rainbow into existence without a storm to precede it. The man waited, his deferential face straining. With the bloody climate of the northern kingdoms, there was no assurance that as he explained how his prism had broken light and what it could mean, the specter of a thousand heresies loomed over his shoulder. Those terrible fears disappeared as fog ran off by the sun. James grinned, and then ordered dozens of different prisms and a collection of glass lenses. The alkemist might as well have been spared from execution, from the look on his face.

#

A crier came out in a circle fenced with wood, a circle which seemed to be the rejected stock left over from a better stall. There were several, seemingly random objects strewn about—a cart, straw men, and round shields; hay bales, a tall pillar of wood, and stools.

“Gather round!” said the crier. “Gather round and see the skills of a man renowned around the world as the most abled of his profession. No army can boast of the skill which lies in this singular archer. From far, noble lands, welcome the great, the famous, the only— _HAWKEYE!_ ”

Clint Barton hopped out from behind the curtain. He had not expected much, so he gave a friendly wave to the five excited children that clapped obligingly as they sat on the hay bales. It had been all he could get because, apparently, benches costed money for an entertainment stall. In any case, it didn’t seem to matter. It wouldn’t have bought him a bigger audience. Clint didn’t mind, in any case. In fact, the only person paying attention who seemed to be all that displeased was the crier.

Every different acrobatic feat was announced before it was done. The Amazing Hawkeye shot arrows through shields while in mid-air; fired two arrows at once, hitting two straw men; and then hung upside down, spinning by a rope tied to his foot as he fired from the pillar at the center of the small arena.

The five children whooped and clapped, two little girls in particular trying to clap so fast they grimaced with the effort. He saluted his tiny audience and then spun back around, still hanging, catching a glance at the crier rolling his eyes.

He spun once more, slow, the fair becoming a carousel around him. He could see much of what was going on from where he was, like the tarot fool looking for wisdom. The crier would complain about the distance from the fair proper, the surety of a smaller audience on the slight hill most folk would not bother to climb. Yet spinning, seemingly useless after he finished his act, he could see the turn of the world.

#

The sparrowhawk was the darling of the falconry contest. Sam had other birds, even a great eagle and a snowy owl, but his light, swift, and most prized hunter outpaced every other competitor. Prince Buchanan and his knight applauded from the sidelines, watching Lord Sitwell’s falconer-knight best a retinue of skilled hunters, lord’s falconers, and bird masters. Sam’s competitors seemed to consider him an upstart, some fool relying on beginner’s luck.

They had not watched Sam practice his craft as Steve had. It had fascinated him while they trained together for the Order. Sam spent his hours unoccupied in learning the art of war to tending to birds, and apprenticing the younger squires even before being ordained. More than that, Steve knew his patience, something so necessary in taming wild animals. If he didn’t have that, he would not have let the young, new pup chase after him until they were companions while the other pages needlessly became competitors.

Though Sam saluted the prince, who nodded to him with great admiration, he hadn’t seen Steve. He’d chosen to stay behind a curtain, still close to his charge but remaining out of sight. It was not the time to surprise his old friend—not yet. That was going to come soon enough. He could hardly contain the smile that snuck onto his face as he imagined it.

He became a spectator as much as a lookout for assassins. The sport of the day had been dull until the birds were in action. A false rabbit made of fur and stuffing was placed at the end of the field. The bird who was the fastest, most obedient and which restrained from tearing the quarry apart would be the one which won out. Many had bet on the large brown eagle to capture its quarry first, but it was a wild and flighty thing, not having any interest in the false bundle of fur and stuffing. Sam’s falcon seized the bait with its sharp talons, wings spread over the ground and blasting a cry as it guarded its new kill. The other bird pecked at the bait, a mark against it, and was reluctant to give it up. The sparrowhawk waited for Sam to approach and willingly returned to the glove as Sam returned the bait to the judges, completely intact.

The knight-falconer had done his service and his lord proud, and so bowed when he was awarded with the title of champion. Steve leaned ever further back behind the curtain as Sam turned towards the lords in attendance to bow. With a sly raise of his brow, he anticipated the next event.

#

The next trick was one of Clint’s favorites. His audience of five had dwindled to four as one of the boys had ran off to see knights batter each other senseless. The remainder of them leaned forward to see what he was about to do with all those apples.

He threw them up into the air. At first he threw only one and then pierced it midair before it had begun to fall back towards the earth. Then he threw two and the children’s eyes widened, mouths slackening. By the time he threw five at a time, their jaws might as well have been detached. He handed out the least bruised apples to the four of them and watched them nibble them from around the arrow shaft like meat from the bone.

“Another feat of archery from the amazing Hawkeye,” the crier said, barely any effort put into his showmanship.

Nobody would have been brought by this brag in any case. They were at the very edge of the fair, on the hill nobody wanted to trudge up, those that had leaving to see the proving. Another one of the boys left, dropping the arrow with his half-eaten apple on the ground and he walked off like magpie after something glinting.

Clint peered down the hill, watching the knights mill as they prepared for their next event.

“One more?” Clint asked.

The last three squealed, lifting their triumphant fists in the air.

#

Sam’s armor shined like silver. Steve knew it would only be the polish and that the etchings of stars were as shallow as nicks. Even as a display, Sam would not have put on armor made of soft metals and grooved by deep, permanent decoration, no matter how pretty the lords and ladies wanted them to be. Under the silver was deep red leather, and under that layer peeked the blue fabric of the southern lords. Rather than seeming an accessory to a lord’s preening, he might as well have been stepping into the seat of a command.

Steve shared the same opinion of costume. He emerged in better armor than he had been wearing in the castle. He’d not been able to completely take away the tarnish of the last battle he had been in, but the weight and the sturdiness gave him the comfort he needed. His compromise to the master of the wardrobe to make him wear armor of gold was to let them trim the edges in gold foil. It bled into the yellow and red linens underneath. He had allowed them to paint his shield in a wash of red and it gleamed in the veiled autumn light.

Sam caught sight of Steve. His face opened into surprise, and when Steve gave him a sly, challenging look, the other knight had to suppress his smile by pinching his mouth shut.

They passed each other, saluting ceremoniously, on the way to opposite sides of the arena.

“Well,” Sam said. “If it isn’t the runt of the litter.”

“I thought the delicate birds went south for the winter,” Steve jabbed just as he passed him by.

Sam’s eyes were bright as they waited for the horn that would loose them on each other. Sam whorled his thin longsword to remind himself of the weight while Steve secured his shield and tested his grip on the battle-axe at his hip. Being old and proven friends would make no difference. It had been years since they had seen each other. Steve could imagine no better way to find out how he had changed in a shorter dialogue than this.

The horn blasted in a short burst and they began to circle. Steve had always been a shield fighter, and Sam relied on swiftness. More than anything, both of them were patient. They tested their distances and watched each other’s footsteps.

When they exploded into action they heard whoops of celebration. Steve dodged Sam’s quick jab, not having to parry to avoid a costly hit. In the next round Sam managed a strike with the pommel, braching Steve’s shield. Steve grinned at himself for having missed that old trick, which normally came at the end to best him. If that is what he began with, he anticipated some new surprise.

It would have been bad form to hit him with the shield in full force, but he gave Sam a few breaching bashes. It unbalanced Sam enough that he had to keep himself from falling, and with his arms wide Steve was able to feint a killing blow to the chest.

Sam smiled at his own theoretical demise and rolled away, laughing.

After several strikes, blocks, and dodges they remained tied at four and four. Five would be the deciding factor. Steve readied himself by planting his boots and steadying his body with a solid exhale. He could see the calculation behind the transformation in Sam’s face—from nearly laughing to unreadable stillness.

Then there was the ringing that came from a hard strike, reverberating through him like a beat in the skin of a drum.

_You’ve been holding out on me_ , Steve thought as he hit the ground, bones ringing, after Sam had lifted his shield from underneath, kicked him in the chest, and pointed the end of his sword to his throat.

The crowd applauded as the horn announced Lord Sitwell’s knight the winner. Sam reached down and Steve clasped the offered hand. They both clapped each other on the shoulder when Sam managed to lift him up.

“Don’t be upset,” Sam said. “It’s not _totally_ your fault that court life has made you soft.”

“It’s good to see you too, Sam,” Steve said.

Thought it was his knight that had lost, Prince Buchanan had bright eyes as he applauded. It was less interesting to him that his knight lost in his name than it was to have seen such an excellent match between two knights of the Order of the Stars. Lord Sitwell, a smaller man with darker skin and an intelligently set face, stood in good humor next to the prince. He was pleased to be sure, but knew better than to begin to boast. What stood out to Steve was that the prince was eyeing Sam with the intention of meeting him. Steve found it another occasion to mark a good quality if he had seen in Sam an acquaintance he wished to have.

Another horn blasted, but it was not to announce anything in the tournament. Every muscle in Steve’s body twitched into attention. Quiet descended and eyes widened all around him as they recognized the familiar note. Dread grew denser in his blood as he saw the flinch in Prince Buchanan’s face, the white pinprick spark of fear visible even from the center of the arena.

It was the only announcement of warning they were given before King Alexander rode into the fair. Atop his tall horse he, for the first time to Steve’s knowledge, bore the attention of a king. Stepping down from the broad-chested creature, a bay mare of excellent posture, he kept some of that stature. It was the first Steve had seen the king with a polished and shining crown.

Steve searched the prince’s face again. Some of the blood had rushed from his face, but his jaw was set and his chin lifted. In that downward gaze Steve spied defiance. He began to worry, so far away from him, jealous of the other knight who stood in for him.  

“Don’t look to me,” Alexander said. “There will be time enough to talk about victory in the north. Prince Buchanan—cousin. We should rightfully applaud you. Your responsibility to care for the people here is met and then doubled in generosity. When winter is fast approaching, we can never miss an hour we can spare for joys. It’s a rare wisdom to act on.”

Though the folk and many of the lords found his words worth celebrating, Steve catalogued them away to mull over later. No spontaneous words could be so calculated, but his goal could not be spied in the moment. All Steve could do was join Sam in bowing to their common lord.

In time, the crowd departed and they met in a private tent. Not only Alexander, James, and Steve, but the king had asked to meet Lord Sitwell’s knight-falconer, who so completely won the admiration of the attendees that day. Sam bowed in just the right way to be proper and yet managing to avoid Alexander’s usual insistence for informality.

Steve had never seen Alexander meet with a lord that was not normally in court. The southern and eastern blue territories lacked presence in the everyday goings-on in the castle and southern manners seemed to be an entirely different entity. Sitwell’s discomfort spoke to such a climate—he peered very closely at his surroundings, barely containing anger behind the tell of a smile. It must have been Sitwell’s usual expression, for no one in the room reacted to it.

“Lord Sitwell is lucky to have you,” King Alexander said. “A falconer and a champion knight. I can’t think of a better honor for a minor lord. You do this kingdom a service.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Sam said without a beat.

“I wonder what the outcome of these tournaments would have been if, in order to win, to win you had to really use those weapons on each other.”

The sentence hung heavy. The words themselves were innocuous. The power of the king who commanded the circle of men had been the hammerstrike to announce his intent. Their silence was in unbelief—he could not possibly mean what he had just said.

“You Majesty?” Sitwell asked.

“Would you kill a fellow knight in your order if your king ordered you to?” Alexander asked Steve.

Steve’s lips parted as if to give an answer. He found himself with an open mouth, mute and foolish. He was afraid that his king knew how a strange fear had threaded its fingers around his throat.

“How about you?” Alexander asked, turning to Sam.

Sam was not dumbfounded as Steve had become. His eyes were narrowed in concentration. He remained stiff and focused, defying the king with nothing but his dignity.

“I find the thought terrible,” Sam said. “But you’re a wise king. Wise kings keep peace and order, as you have done theses many years. No righteous man has to fear his friends will be his enemies.”

Alexander nodded, impressed, happy with the answer he had been given. Then he swept the tent with his eyes, seeming to have seen the discomfort around him for the first time.

“Look at this wall of faces,” Alexander said. “It was curiosity. Some thought of barbaric times. Bloodsport is the last resort of a failing state. Cousin, I’m afraid you’re the only one who knows about my morbid humor.”

James nodded, straining under the eyes as he smiled.

“It’s late in the day,” Alexander said. “Your fair is just about wrapped up. I wish I could have seen more of it, but my duty was to protection. But let’s celebrate the end of the conflicts in the north. With so many lords, we should have a banquet. I will be honored to have you and your champion by my seat. I’m getting a little tired of those politicians anyway.”

#

The group of lords and knights left the privacy of the tent to retire to the castle on the hill. The path was quiet once it moved away from the fair. For privacy, they had moved through the food tents, sparsely staffed as the stalls began to close up. Between the wagons and storage tents, the assassin weaved, lest the quarry know the weight of watching eyes.

The assassin’s feet were light, movements quiet, and as impermanent in space as a ghost. With such quiet, the stretch of Clint’s bowstrings echoed.

He took a foot to the face and stumbled backwards.

_I shouldn’t have done that_ , Clint thought just before his legs were swept from under him.

The assassin leaped to dive onto him and he kicked straight up. Whoever it was flew backwards. By the time Clint had gotten to his feet, the assassin had beaten him to it. He defended himself from the explosions of punches and kicks. The only thing there was to do was lead the figure backwards. His opponent was following, to his relief.

Clint tried to get a good look at what was under the hood but there was only a mask, painted white like a wipe of chalk, like a skull scratched out with rock.

“Alright,” Clint grunted. “Sorry about this.”

The assassin paused, surprised by his words, giving Clint just enough time to use their falling weight to flip them backwards. The dark figure rolled into an open box that was only recognizable as such when Clint kicked up a door from underneath hay and latched it.

He wiped sweat from his brow and moved around the tent he had been leading them to. A horse was already hitched to it and he jumped on its back. He turned around and lifted a little window. Through the bars he looked down at the assassin.

Her hood and mask had fallen away, revealing a glaring face framed by wavy red hair. Her eyes were bright with hate, and she contained whatever angry shout was in her throat with gritted teeth. She punched up, once, the wood sounding as if it could crack.

Clint closed the window. He patted the box.

“Yeah, you’ll be alright,” Clint said.

The wagon with the single box on it exited the fairgrounds. With the crier happily employed by another stall, the only sign The Amazing Hawkeye had been there at all were the three little girls attempting acrobatic tricks in the abandoned ring where they had seen him perform.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the recent delay! I've been having pain in my hands, so typing has been hard. Updates will be a bit slower, but I am definitely still working on this. Thank you for your comments and kudos as I've been working on future chapters!

The accounting of lords set up across the map in James’ mind, a map he had glanced at but twice. Blue and red—it could be nothing but an accounting of alliances. Beginning with Sitwell, the blue lords wrapped around one side of the room, bleeding into the other. Only a few of those present were red lords, but nearly all had accompanied Alexander north to quell the chaos the comet had sparked. The red lords held more land, larger armies, and more power. No one could say without consequence that Alexander had better motive to retain them but to celebrate victory.

Red was for enemies, for battle lines. James turned to glance at Steve, who studied the crowd about him in perfect diligence. James had never seen his knight protector in his own clothes, only those the crown had provided for him. Under the silver armor that was from Steve’s order, padded by embroidered brocade. That bulky cloth was the same red.

James’ hands curled around the fabric of his own coat. On Alexander’s return, he’d order his heavy coat of brown to be replaced with a familiar silken red gown with swirls of golden stitching. They had fixed the hole where the assassin his plunged the knife. Good as new. The bunched fabric rubbed against his healing scar. How much red was in his wardrobe? He didn’t truly know. What business would he have looking if he had a master of his wardrobe?

Red was the color of the banner behind the king’s table. Red filled up his eyes like a landscape. It flashed in memory. The flag of Alexander’s house was a plain banner. His cousin explained it as a blank field on which he would refuse to write his name. All the same, the red wash over the kingdom was his signature.

As a man waking from a dream, his eyes fluttered. All this about him, and he was only just waking to see it. He craned his head again to catch Steve looking at him. Steve’s smile was warm, encouraging. He felt several thoughts stitching together, a lengthening thread that pulled a loop tighter—

“To Prince Buchanan,” Alexander toasted. “And the comet which marks this new age.”

James found his mug as if it had been in his hand during the entire toast. Smiling, bashful, he saluted his lords in return. All the lords and ladies of the hall drank, bashed the tables and laughed, for one reason or another. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve was steadfast in staring straight forward, unaware of the roiling brew of thoughts that James could not quiet.

Imagining Steve’s face as he confessed his sudden paranoia crushed all thoughts of confession. The knight was a protector. That was why he had become a stone watchman at his side—to guess at a reason otherwise had been foolish. The king had returned. It was to the king which Steve made his vow, not to James. And he could not bear for Steve to laugh at his strange, paranoid thoughts.

The other knight, the falconer, took Steve aside for a moment and they stepped into the alcove of a hall behind the king’s table. The time for James to ask to be taken out, taken back to his apartment, had passed. He told himself it would have been a stupid remark anyway.

James held up his glass to his cousin. Alexander smiled, faint fatherly features as warm as the fire. Afraid to break the eye contact, he did not dare to look to Steve again. There was a single, unmistakable mood which Alexander was in when he commanded James’ complete attention.

A comet had come and gone, and the age he lived in was still red. For the first time, James wished the heavens had a way to care about which kind of world they lived in. In Alexander’s absence he was able to imagine a new age, but with his return had ended the foolish delusion.  

#

Clint carried the plate of food with the practiced air of a server. The key ring rattled as he flipped it to find the basement key. The assassin had definitely heard it. He could tell by the way he couldn’t hear a single noise on the other side of the door. This wouldn’t be fun, exactly, but it had to be done. Clint breathed in through his nose, then puffed a breath out. In an effort not to lose the food, he slid the tray to rest on a round table by the door.

_Not the face, please not the face_ , he thought.

The hinges creaked and the air of the basement puffed cold into his face. He kicked the door behind him and it latched just in time for him to be kicked back against it. The floor wheeled overhead as he sailed. She was skilled, even in midair, grabbing his body with legs which threw him wherever she wanted. Then the ceiling was overhead as he was sat on, breath barely eking out from between squeezing hands.

“So you’re not hungry?” Clint choked out.

“Who sent you?” the assassin demanded through grit and bared teeth.

“Why would I tell you that?”

“To spare your own life.”

“Like I spared yours?”

She didn’t release him, but Clint could breathe a little better. For a skilled assassin, just barely not choking might as well have been releasing him and saying sorry, then getting invited over for dinner. If he’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t have looked for the deepening hollow between her collarbone and the quick widening of her eyes, which she forced to relax away.

“You were supposed to kill me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Clint said.

“Why didn’t you?”

Silence was all Clint could give her. She shared the silence. She was studying it, tasting what it did to the air. She rolled over and kneeled on his arm, hand still on his throat. Clint held his other hand up in deferential helplessness. Her green eyes seemed to want to break through his skull so she could pick apart his secrets with her fingers.

“They call me Clint,” he said. “Well, actually they call me Hawkeye most of the time. Can I get a name?”

The assassin peered to the side. She listened for other ears in the walls, looked for eyes, and guessed they were alone.

“Natasha,” she said.

It was whispered like a secret, and her face twitched as she said it. The release of a name from her throat came as a surprise even to her. It was the face of someone not expecting herself to make a decision like that. It was her real name.

“Well, Natasha,” Clint said. “I don’t mean to brag, but I make the best gruel this side of the border. Then maybe we can talk about who sent me. No killing me until I’ve gotten a last meal at least, right?”

She pulled back, eyes darkening as her hair fell around her eyes. Clint’s face relaxed. That instinct he’d had when he decided not to shoot her came back, and something more. A kind of sorrow appeared, settling his racing heart and rushing mind.

Natasha had the far-reaching stare of the war-traumatized as he fetched the food. He placed the tray on a table that sat under a high window. Clint set it up with the two bowls of white, thick porridge, dotted with some fruit and nuts. Not that common of a luxury for her, from the slight widening of her eyes.

Natasha came closer, but didn’t sit down. She was peering at the bowl, rising a bit on her toes. It wasn’t until then that Clint noticed how small she was. It had been hard to think of her as petite when she was crushing his windpipe. She sat down and tucked into the porridge, not only seeming to have lost her reservations, but actually enjoying the spoonful she ate. She chewed it, slow. There was no rush in her manner.

“Um,” Clint began. “You’re not worried about—“

“Please,” Natasha said, taking a sip of the light berry wine he had brought. “You had a chance to kill me and didn’t take it. It would be a waste of poison.”

Clint shrugged and took a bite. In the minute it took him to set up the meal and begin eating, Natasha had come back from whatever shock made her eyes and throat tremble. In what was either a masterful feint or a complete control of her humors, she had gained some steadiness. He would bet it was hard-won either way.

“Can I get your word on something?” Clint asked.

“Do you think I can be trusted with giving my word?” Natasha asked.

“Absolutely not. It’d still be nice to have it, though.”

“Well, archer—shoot.”

“If I promise not to try to kill you again, will you promise to also not try to kill me again?”

“You’re a real wordsmith.”

“You can say no.”

“I promise.”

Clint nodded, took a bite of his food, nodded some more. He shared with her a long silence. They were eating, after all. He caught Natasha looking when he raised his eyes. Opening his mouth, he choked and coughed a bit to cover it up.

“What?” Clint said.

“You just—,” she began “You’re going to believe me.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Again, he shrugged. Natasha whirled her spoon in her bowl. Her eyes became sharper. She leaned forward, a single spark of white flickering somewhere in the depth of her eyes, as ferociously intelligent as a snake.

“You know I’m only staying here to learn more about you,” Natasha said. “Don’t you?”

“Mm,” Clint confirmed. “That sounds about right. If you want me to get all excitable and foolish so I let something slip, I bet you could do it by telling me why you were in the north with King Alexander.”

One more rapid blink, serpentine, carried her back into the realm of the tame. She leaned back in her chair, ate another spoonful, and pondered what would happen next.

#

“Are you a madman?” Sam asked him.

The great hall was right around the corner. Steve was close enough to Prince Buchanan that he was not in the danger of being reticent in his duties. Nobody had approached the prince but the king and Lord Sitwell, who sat next to him thanks to Sam’s triumph in the tournaments. They were near enough for Sam to pull him aside, but close enough that they could both see their charges.

Steve stared at the sliver of a face that showed when James turned his head and searched the room. Sam moved between Steve’s sight of the prince, face firm and disappointed.

“It’s not what you think,” Steve insisted.

“Really?” Sam said. “So you always look at princes like you’re besotted? That’s just your face.”

Steve again flicked his eyes towards James. The glance had been instinctual, like a jump at a loud noise. It would have been less embarrassing if the glance hadn’t lingered long enough to become a gaze. The intensity of Sam’s ire brought his attention back. Unbecoming as it was for a knight-captain, he shuffled his feet.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“My duty,” Steve said.

“Give me a real answer.”

“I agreed to protect him. I’m doing as _the king_ commanded.”

“You did, didn’t you? You fell in love with him. You fell in love with the god damn prince the king ordered you to protect. You know that means you’re blind now.”

“I’m not blind.”

“How much time did you spend looking for the assassin while you and Prince Buchanan were making his little fair a reality?”

Dread pushed against his skin. He wanted it to be the heat of the closeby fire. He could delude himself and say his skin prickled with the sweat of exertion, but he was too well-acquainted with the needle of shame to pretend it was anything else.

“There’s no sign of another assassin,” Steve tried.

“You know you’re not dealing with a common hired knife,” Sam snapped. “Not seeing them is the point with this sort. Which is why you _need_ , more than anyone in the entire world, to return to searching. Now look at him again.”

Warm affection returned as he leaned to get a better look at James. It stoked love in the heart but invited fear to warm its hands by it as company. More of James’ face showed when he addressed an attendant, smiling. He was as taken by that flash of teeth as if the smile were directed for him.

Pulled back by his starry silver gorget, Sam commanded Steve’s attention. His face was pinched in anger, but it was borrowed from the next few moments, which collected that debt and retreated to let the compassion bleed back in. Steve had never entertained the thought that Sam was being needlessly cruel, yet still his heart strained to know such a naked sadness on his face. Sam could never be needlessly cruel, not even in anger. What’s more, Sam’s anger spoke from a place of experience.

“Bury it,” Sam said. “Or he stops being the prince you’re protecting. He becomes the reason you lose your head. Look at him like that again, see how right I am.”

The force had drained from Sam’s anger. It was a tone which anticipated mourning. Mourning for the friend he would lose, and a lesser mourning in the miserable truth he knew had to be spoken. Steve could only avert his gaze to the ground.

It hadn’t been the first time Steve had wanted to ask. It was the question that had been present since he saw Sam, and grew louder as he noted who he hadn’t seen. The time had not been right, and it still wasn’t ideal. It was easier for Steve to ask, knowing there was never a right time.

“Riley isn’t here,” Steve said, his voice nearly cracked.

Sam was immoveable—the only evidence Steve needed to know something had happened. He hadn’t wanted to mention the hole that had bothered him as soon as he realized who was absent.

“Riley isn’t coming,” Sam said.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered.

Steve let silence say the rest. They would both have the time to declare their sorrows, but not in the sight, and hearing, of Alexander’s lords and their allies. King Alexander’s hall never felt like a steady place to put his feet down. He would not risk another man’s place in the world by saying anything in the wrong place.

Sam rejoined Lord Sitwell as Steve returned to Prince Buchanan’s side. He forced his attention to shift, even when he swore he felt eyes on him. The hall was as crowded as he’d ever seen it, and it had made Steve nervous throughout the evening. King Alexander kept a small court in his usual sessions, but the fair had brought lords from the south and east, and the returning war parties had brought with them the lords of the west and north that did not usually attend. The princes’ insistence that the meal to celebrate the fair be large, but it had spread thin amongst the lords, ladies, their children, and their dogs.

The king gave a toast—it was the same high language he had spoken in to praise the prince while on the fields of the fair. It was the mummery that bothered Steve. Perhaps not the mummery—but that the playing was not in the interest of anybody there.

Like scratching an itch he hadn’t yet learned to ignore, he let himself watch the prince. The prince stared, steadfast, at his cousin the king.

#

Drunk men are very good at finding a reason to quit a room. It was the only reliable way to end any kind of celebration. With each party that left, James felt his heart sinking. The quiet simmering in his heart rose the emptier and emptier the hall became. At last it was only the king, some of his advisors, Lord Sitwell, and the two knights.

The knight-falconer hovered very near Sitwell. He was a tall, striking man who had captured his interest and James still wished to speak to him. In the setting of the fair, he’d cut a charming figure. More to the point, Steve had been so pleased to see him. He couldn’t think of a better endorsement. To his disappointment, the falconer had become solemn. He gave nothing away, becoming the guardian over his lord’s shoulder. Steve was just behind him, and was standing the very same way.

“I wish I’d known we had retainers in common,” Alexander said, gesturing to Sam. “It might have given you more occasion to visit.”

“I only just learned it today myself,” Sitwell said. “There’s all kinds of luck in the world.”

The rebellion in Sitwell’s voice went noticed, but unremarked upon. Alexander acquiesced with a bow, the way he always did when something of the sort was said. James suspected there was a vault in that head where every offense and hint of allegiance was marked down and stored. Another page was added to the volumes.

“The luck tonight is with our knights,” Alexander said. “In all the time since he’s sworn an oath, this soldier has never once broken his watch. I think that deserves some reward, if you’ll match it. They should reacquaint. Knight-Captain Rogers—you’re released of your duties until dawn.”

James lost focus. His gaze dragged to the floor, dread sinking it down. Time had been borrowed. It had been good, as it lasted, but still gone. Steve’s oath had kept his cousin at bay, yet it had been his cousin that Steve had sworn to obey. Steve was still too far to the side for James to see his face, but he caught the way the arms loosened and lowered.

“My lord--,” Steve began.

Alexander planted himself and stared him square in the eye. James could see Steve come back to his correct posture, arms on his belt.

“Thank you,” Steve finished.

Steve bowed. There was something slow in it, something agonizing which his body was fighting to reject. No matter what thoughts were running through his head, Steve was pushing through them to do right by his lord.

James didn’t want him to. He wanted him to be a rebel, to listen to the instinct that James saw was there behind straining muscles that marked his jaw. The details of the scenario escaped him, but if anyone could have pulled him out of that hall, it would have been him. James locked eyes with Steve. He wanted to plead for just such a thing to happen.

He smiled, nodded. It would be easier if Steve stayed in his solar, far away.

The rest of the conversation which pulled James out of the room with Alexander, Sitwell, and the rest of the usual close counsel escaped him. He’d gone deaf, drained, and inevitability itself told him that it would be easier just to let whatever awaited him in private counsel happen. They slid out, the royals, the lords, the high-borns to a place the common-born knights would not ascend to without a lifetime’s worth of work.

Creaking doors announced the severance, and James turned his head as a last chance presented itself. The falconer’s brow was pinched, eyes blinking as if he were beginning to see James for the first time.

Then there was Steve.  

Among the waves of felling across that telling face came apprehension, regret, and upset. His mouth was parted and his chest swelled as if to grab any tiny bit of breath that might have fed a protest. As the doors closed and only a sliver of them remained to be seen, Steve’s brow froze.

Worry moved from fluid to stone, his brow becoming a heavy, solid thing. That was the man who would have found a way to take him away from the hall and whatever was awaiting his charge. Will fully present, the only thing which remained was the plan. James knew that was precisely what Steve was thinking of doing. Terror froze James’ throat. He begged the universe not to let him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this replaces the chapter 6 that was previously a placeholder. this is NOT the same chapter that was here previously--it's a total rewrite.
> 
> this work is not abandoned.

The marble was rich with flecks that the dim firelight awoke, alive as a sky full of stars. It was unlike the rooms of stone in the rest of the manor. James shivered in the cold, an air that clung to moisture as if ready to break into rain. It seeped into his skin, but more than that, into his mind. He knew this cold, the shape of this room, but memory could not be commanded.

The lords and servants that Alexander had permitted to be there were few. They formed a circle around him and Alexander—sentinels as witnesses. He didn’t like their blank, mask-like faces. He hated how they congealed into one faceless crowd. The two servants which attended them stood unmoving in their meek silence and would be no help to him.

One of the servants, a meek, fair woman, gave Alexander his brass cup. He looked into the wine, saw it unchanged, and took a drink. The servant woman shuffled back, making herself invisible as she stood near Alexander’s blank, red banner, her crimson headwrap and tunic the same color.

The king brought his attention back to the prince.

James thought of his Knight-Captain. He wondered what the man would do if he were here. He pictured the clarity in the man’s clear blue eyes, the reserves of strength he had. He pictured him standing there, taking up the shape that only he could in the air around him.

What James decided was that he was going to be brave.

“Did you enjoy the fair?” James asked.

“You brought all sorts,” Alexander. “Even… foreign alkemists.”

The way the king said ‘foreign alkemists’ scraped his nerves. It would have been one thing if Alexander had been upset about the fair, but he had narrowed it to James’ passion. A passion he knew he held dearly. It was a strange thing to say. The king had never begrudged his fascination with the disciplines, though he had often found them trivial. This was different. This was malicious.

“I think maybe you’ve been spending too much time in your father’s library,” Alexander said.

“Perhaps not enough,” James said. “And perhaps it’s not doing any good behind our walls. One of the men from the east brought a press. It’s more straightforward than I thought it would be. If we could just move on from illumination, we could—”

Alexander took James by the chin and made his jaw parallel to the floor. He inspected James’ face as he had done countless times before. For what he searched, James didn’t know, but whatever it was must have been missing. His face turned down and disapproval was the language of each motion. He let go of James’ chin with a snap.

Alexander moved away from him, his eye incurious. James felt his head become stone, too heavy for his own neck. Some part of him wanted to cower. He refused to let his head drop. He let his jaw stay parallel to the floor. For some reason, he thought of Steve. Words rose in his throat, and he didn’t take time to think if they were unwise or not.

“I was right about the comet,” James said. “Turning the tide of fear and making it an omen of a new age worked. The people are settled. They’re happy. If we just give them something to rally around instead of—”

The crack of the slap echoed off the cold marble. James was frozen, head forced to the side. He couldn’t even reach up to cup his stinging cheek.

“It’s been too long,” Alexander said.

James stepped back, away from the king and into the grasp of two guards. At the feel of their cold hands, he shivered and jumped. Again, memory would not come but he knew this feeling. He knew this violence in the pressure around his arms, he knew the chill in him that had nothing to do with the cold in the air.

“No,” James said, and he didn’t know why.

Alexander gestured and one of the lords bowed his head. He moved a tapestry aside and revealed a red door. At the sight of it, James’ heart leapt into his throat. The shape of something began to form in his memory. All he knew was that he didn’t want to go into that room. Yet when they dragged him forward, he didn’t resist. He wanted his feet to move the other way, but they became useless.

“No,” James repeated. “Please, no.”

His voice was quiet and timorous. There was no force to it. It was begging at its strongest. He knew there was nothing he could do.

The only light in the chamber was the low light of the lanterns that the lords brought in with them. James heard water and a nausea rose in his belly. He couldn’t yet see where the water was coming from, but it dripped and sloshed. The guards grabbed at him and stripped him to all but his plain braies. He resisted, though weakly, shrinking into himself as though that could have clung to modesty.

And then he was being pushed into a basin. The icy water hit his skin and he gasped. He was pushed under and for a split-second thought they were going to drown him.

Then they put down the lid.

He pressed, uselessly, at the slab that covered the basin, but it wouldn’t budge. There was no light until he saw something gold spark in his vision. There was a golden lantern light he could see through a pinhole. It began to flicker and steadily blink. The blinking became a rhythm, appearing and disappearing as the lantern swung above him. He could not look away. It was the only light he had in the dark, cold place. He reached for it, coveting it. As the light began to appear and disappear, he felt himself sink further and further down, until all that existed was the blinking light and the voice worming its way into his ear to speak of terrible things.

#

Clint gave Natasha time. She was still dressed in the servant’s garb in the house colors of King Alexander. The crimson tunic and headwrap had let her blend into the tapestries as they served as silent witnesses. She unwrapped the crimson wrap from her crown and her hair fell out of it in puffy curls. She folded and wrapped it expertly, and Clint wondered at how well she had blended in. He pictured her in other houses, playing the spy. This was certainly the bearing of someone practiced in this art.

“Familiar?” Clint suggested.

Natasha didn’t answer. She peered out into the night through the tall, narrow window. She had opened it, letting in the cold, autumn air. Clint was shivering against it, but didn’t tell her. She was unbothered, so he would remain unbothered. He took off his own servant’s scarf, a red one he had worn around his neck in the same crimson color. He played with it in his hands as he took a seat in a chair and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“They told me King Alexander was the one,” Natasha said. “They said what I was doing would help restore balance. That this wouldn’t happen to anyone else. They said these tortures…the spells on the mind…were a lost art.”

Clint let the silence stand. She didn’t need his words. Her thoughts could be seen in the line between her brows and the way she held the crimson cloth tight. Anger was a sheen of oil on top of her still waters. He did not intend to light a spark.

She turned from the window, but did not quite meet Clint’s eyes. Her gaze was far afield and unwavering. Finally, she spoke.

“When they locked me in that thing,” Natasha said. “I lost myself. I lost all sense of who I was. It was like the real me, that girl who had run so far away from home, had drowned and something else was taking her place. They stuffed something else in my mind. I’m not even sure if I’m that same person anymore.”

“You’re not,” Clint said.

Natasha rounded on him, her face battling anger and confusion. Clint realized he had not said it in quite the right way and held up his hands to explain it better.

“All of us are not the same person we used to be,” Clint said. “Not even day-to-day. What I’ve seen today has changed me, too, even though I was just a witness. And someone who has been through what you’ve endured? You will have changed. But you have a choice. The choice to change into what you want to be—not what they wanted to make you into.”

Natasha’s face relaxed. Her lips parted to let in shallow breath. Clint could see his words getting to the center of her and simply hoped against a cruel world that he had said the correct thing.

She rose her head and her unwavering stare locked to Clint’s. He was not prepared for the strength in those green eyes, but it didn’t make him want to turn away.

“I’m staying,” she said. “I want to see this through. Let me help, however I can. This isn’t going to happen to anyone else.”

Clint nodded. “Good,” he said. “Because it’s going to be a long, hard winter.”

#

The fire in Steve’s apartment was blazing and hot, but Steve barely noticed it. His mind was far afield. He pictured his prince’s face as the doors closed on him, the begging in his face. He hadn’t been able to understand if he was begging to be left alone or to be saved. If the latter, saved from what? And what could he do against a cadre of lords and their guards?

It wasn’t until Sam put his face near Steve’s that he was pulled back into the room. Steve stiffened in his chair and sat up. He shook his head in apology. They were relieved of their ceremonial armor and sat around in cloth and leather. The chairs, padded with cushions, gave Steve little comfort. He was not where he was. He was wherever the prince was, though he could not see it. But they were warm and insulated against the autumn cold and Steve became aware again that he was host to a long-missing friend.

“There you are,” Sam said.

“Sam,” Steve sighed. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that—”

“Yes, you’ve probably not been separated from your charge since you took it up. The king gave you one night. Spend it here instead of…wherever it was that your worried mind went off to.”

“I didn’t like the look of them.”

“It’d serve you well not to say things like that. Those are your betters. Not to mention the most powerful lords in this kingdom.”

Steve snorted. Sam raised his brow at that. Steve smiled, leaning back into his chair.

“My betters,” Steve said. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Sam nodded his head, but would not say outright that he agreed with him.

“How does Lord Sitwell treat you?” Steve asked.

“Well,” Sam assured him. “He’s a strange man, but honest. My previous lord was not, shall we say… Well, Sitwell has never asked me to do anything that would haunt me. He only asks that I represent his house well.”

“You’ve done that.”

“I did do pretty well today, didn’t I?”

“You’re a master with your birds.”

“I was mostly talking about knocking you on your ass.”

Steve barked a laugh, genuine and bright. It was infectious and Sam chuckled along with him.

The laughter died down and the unspoken thing made itself known. The absent presence stood over them in the room, demanding to be recognized.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Steve said.

“The war in the south,” Sam said. “The invaders.”

“I’d heard it was a hard war.”

“And a strange one. Steve, I had never seen anything like it, not in pitch battle. They weren’t like men. They wore masks into battle, and their faces underneath were pale and strange. The physics found strange herbs on them that made them immune to fatigue when burned and inhaled. And what was stranger? No one can figure out what they wanted. They did not treat, they did not ask for terms but to tell us where to meet them. When they were defeated, they went back to where they came from.”

“And Riley?”

“I was not with him.”

“Sam—”

Sam withheld anything else, and Steve knew better than to push. It was part of what they had signed up for. The possibility of death was always looming over soldiers and knights. It would only take one invading army, one petulant lord, then perhaps one fatal wound or a nick that invited infection. Then it would be over.

Yet Steve thought back to the friend he’d had in Riley. The man had been bright, and as energetic as a puppy. He was a fighter, and loved who he loved with ardent passion. None more than Sam. It was not right that his light was extinguished. Not Riley. It was somehow even more unfair than everything else.

“I’m sorry,” was all Steve could offer.

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” Sam said.

“I should have been there. I should have—”

“Your training wasn’t done yet. I’m _glad_ you weren’t there, Steve. One less person to witness what I witnessed. One less person I might have lost. There was no humanity in it. They’re gone, but the cost was too great.”

“All the same…”

Steve let the conversation drift into silence.

When the silence lifted, they spoke of better things.

#

When Sam retired to the quarters Sitwell’s men were sharing, the dread that had disappeared for some time had returned. It sat low and heavy in his belly. That sense that something was wrong felt like fact, and not a feeling. He decided to sleep, with as much depth as he could. He did not lay down, but instead propped himself onto a tilted chair, his head laid back against the stone wall. He didn’t care much for his comforts.

An hour passed before he heard the sound of three pairs of steps. He jolted out of sleep and stood up. He considered what time it must have been. He and Sam had talked well into the night, and with a sleep of a few hours, it had to be nearing midnight.

The door swung open and the prince was there, being helped into the room by a servant and his physician. Steve jerked upright and came forward. The physician held out his hand and Steve stopped.

“We’ll be the ones to get him to bed,” he said.

“James?” Steve asked. “What’s happened?”

James did not respond. His head was drooping and he stared at the floor with heavy eyelids shielding his eyes.

“He’s had a spell, is all,” the servant said. “He has those.”

They deposited James on his bed. He sat down and had to be held upright, like they were children getting a doll to sit upright on a chair. The physician had something under his arm. He began to unspool it and Steve saw that it was a small, lidded cauldron that had been wrapped in cloth. James’ medicine.

“I can give that to him,” Steve said.

The servant and the physician turned on him with sneers on their faces.

“Do you know how much he needs to be taking?” the physician said. “Or even what this brew does?”

“How about you show me?”

Somehow, the physician found it in him to be defiant. Steve loomed over the smaller man, his brow etched down, jaw firm. They stared at one another until at last the physician broke. He explained how to give it to the prince—that in between spoonfuls he must inhale the vapors, that it must all be drunk, and that he must go to bed right after. Steve nodded, absorbing the instructions. The servant and the physician left, eying Steve as they left.

Steve stomped over to the table where the medicine was steaming and grabbed it with the cloth. He walked to the balcony with it, opened the doors, and threw the broth into the air. He heard it land in the mud below with a squelch.

He came back to see James wavering on the edge of his bed. He brought up a chair and sat before him, holding his prince by the cheeks.

“James?” Steve asked. “Do you hear me?”

Steve noticed that James’ hair was damp to the touch, and that his hair had become wavy. His skin was cold and clammy and the breath that came from his mouth was hot.

“Medicine,” James said.

“You don’t need that,” Steve said.

“I have to,” James said. “I must take my medicine. I must. I have to.”

“James… my prince… no. No more.”

James looked up from the floor. It was as if he had only just then noticed that he was not alone in the room. He gazed into Steve’s eyes so long and so completely that Steve forgot himself, too. He was suddenly aware—aware of how he was holding the prince’s face, how close they were, how he could feel breath on his mouth.

James’ brows came down in fury. He pushed Steve’s hands away. Steve, not knowing what to do, reeled back in his chair. The prince was more lucid, but also less kind.

“What is it?” Steve asked. “What’s wrong?”

James pushed himself off the bed, but had to grab the posts to steady himself as he stood. He wheeled on Steve, eyes full of rage.

“Why do you have to be like this?” James asked.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, rising from his chair.

“You’re so noble and brave, aren’t you? The paragon of knights. We can’t all be that way. We can’t all be like you. You expect that of me. You want me to be like you.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to!”

“ _James_.”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

“What happened?”

James froze. His eyes were wide enough to circle his irises in white. He blinked, rapidly. “I was with the king,” he said.

“And then?” Steve asked.

James shut his eyes up and pressed one hand against the side of his head, as if trying to block out a noise.

“I don’t know,” James said. “I need to take my medicine.”

“You don’t need to take anything those men prescribe you any longer.”

“You don’t understand, I need it.”

“You need rest. That’s all.”

“I need… I need to… oh god damn it.”

Steve came closer and put his hands on James’ shoulder, wrapping the other around his waist. For a moment it was as if they could dance, but it was only to lead James to his bed. Steve helped strip him of his cloak and clothes. He noticed that his braies were also damp to the touch, but he did not take those off. He laid James’ clothes on the chair and, while James held his arms around himself, Steve took his nightclothes from the wardrobe. Steve didn’t watch as James finished undressing and dressing himself. He waited patiently for him to be decent and then helped him into bed. James was shaking until he laid down, sighing as he sunk into the bed.

Steve brought the chair up beside the bed and sought out James’ hands. They were frozen and clammy. He had been wet and cold. _Why had he been wet?_ Steve asked himself with mounting worry.

“I’m sorry,” James said. “I don’t know why I was so mad.”

Steve padded James’ hand. “It’s alright now.”

“Rogers…”

“Yes?”

“No. Your name. You have a surname. Not many knights have those.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Don’t people tell long stories at bedtime?”

Steve sighed. He never found it an interesting story. All the same, he had no hesitation in indulging his prince. He thought about how to tell it best, eyes searching the ceiling.

“Well,” Steve said. “One upon a time, there was a house Rogers. It was a small house, barely worth mentioning. We had land, perhaps a hundred acres. By the time I was born it was half that, and it kept dwindling. Then my father died and it was just me and my mother. I was just a boy when he died. I never knew the comforts of a lord, and by the time I came of age there was no land left to give me. So I just have a name.”

“It is a good name.”

“Well, I’m glad someone thinks so.”

Steve offered James a smile. The smallest reflection of it ghosted on James’ face. Then sleep began to overtake him. His head became heavier on the pillow and his eyelids drooped.

“I wonder what we might have been,” James said.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, brows ticking down in curiosity.

“The pair of us—two spoiled lords banging around our manors together. What might we have been. You and I—together—”

Steve’s breath stilled in his chest. He admonished himself for his thoughts, sure the prince was speaking of friendship only. But there was some hope—

Steve could feel his heart killing him. It was going to kill him, this love. He was sure the pressure around his heart would crush it, and it would shatter inside him like a delicate glass in too strong a grip. He was a dying man, pulled further under by every glance he found hope in, in every joyous moment he spent with James.

“I can’t think about that,” James said, pulling back into himself. “I can’t. I know who I am. It’s stupid to think of the things you can’t have. Friends, privacy, _love_ —”

Steve’s throat was swelled. He could not swallow or breathe.

James’ eyes were drooping. He was drowning in sleep and Steve could only watch him slip farther away.

“I don’t want to dream,” James said, voice heavy.

Fear sparked in Steve’s body. It was such a strange thing to say. He could not ask, for he was moments from losing him. Yet Steve knew that, for the rest of the night at the very least, those words would haunt him. He felt their specter already growing stronger as the prince faded. At last, James eyes were blank, staring into nothing.

“Sleep well, my prince,” Steve wished him.

James’ eyes closed. Pulled entirely to sleep, the cares he was holding in his face departed. In the dark of the room, Steve felt safe in taking the price’s hand from off the bed. He smoothed the back of the prince’s hand before laying down a kiss that he wished was placed elsewhere. It was all he would allow himself. All he would ever allow himself.

He turned the hand which he held in his over. They were soft hands, and Steve’s own rough, calloused palms scratched against them.

Too soft.

Far too soft.

The idea came to him as an inkling at first. He invited it in and let it ramble in his head until it was no longer something he could pass off as an idle concept. It could work. It _would_ work. But only if the prince wanted it to.


	7. Chapter 7

The prince was wary as he walked with Steve through the dark part of the manor. Their way was lit by what little light peeked through the shuttered windows and the lantern that Steve held out in front of him. Wary, but not suspicious. There was more of a tinge of curiosity, but mostly he hadn’t understood why he couldn’t ask where they were going.

“It’s not far now,” Steve assured him.

“What’s not far?” James asked.

He opened an ailing wooden door and led the prince down the steep steps, James putting his hand on his shoulder in case he fell in the dark. The stairway opened up and he led James through, watching his face to see what he thought.

James stared at the bright undercroft. Sun came in through windows in great rays of light, reflecting off the light stone. The ceiling was arched, connecting the pillars that held up that wing of the manor. It had been abandoned for some time and was dusty and dingy. When that part of the manor was abandoned, it had been put to use as storage for things they supposed would never be needed again. It was all crammed up on the far wall—furniture, mirrors, household things all cluttered to make the center an open space.

Sam stepped from behind one of the pillars. He locked eyes on the prince with a heavy glare. James, surprised to see him, rose an inch, his eyes flitting back and forth from Sam to Steve.

“What is this?” James asked.

“Give me your cloak,” Steve said.

Though he bore confusion on his face, the prince did as he was told. Steve took the heavy, plush article and laid it over a spare piece of dusty old furniture. James’ mouth flapped to protest about the luxury of the clothes but reconsidered whether or not he cared.

“Can you move in those clothes?” Sam asked.

“Move?” James asked. “Why?”

Sam threw something large. James had to scramble to catch it, but he did. James’ eyes went wide when he saw what it was holding. It was a wooden sword of average length, heavy, with a leather grip. James held it with trepidation, as if it could turn into a snake at any moment and bite him.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” James said.

Steve lifted his shield off his back.

“You either hit this,” Steve said, hitting the shield with the sword.

“Or this,” Sam said, holding up his own wooden sword.

James was reeling. Steve wished it could be any other way. He wished he didn’t have to thrust this on him without warning, that they could ease into this some other way. But there was another, greater dread that commanded him: do it now. There is not time to waste.

“My physician—,” James began.

“ _Fuck_ your physician,” Steve said.

The sudden language from Steve jolted James to attention, his eyes widening and fixing on him, unblinking. He looked to Sam, as if to ask if he’d seen it too. Sam only raised his brows, unruffled.

“What do you expect me to do?” James asked. “To train like a soldier? I can’t—”

“We will come here every day, unless we are seen,” Steve said. “If we’re not doing drills with swords, I’m going to give you very heavy things to lift and carry. When we’re not doing that, we’re testing your skill with a bow and arrow. And we start today. And don’t tell me you can’t. I know you well enough by now.”

James stared down at the wooden sword in his hands, delicately, as if could float upwards. He hefted it, testing the weight. Then he shook his head once, and very slowly.

“I’ve tried to be strong before,” James said.

“That was when you didn’t have me around,” Steve said.

They locked eyes again. There was a strangeness to the prince’s face—a sadness and a longing, swimming in a despair that Steve _wished_ he knew.

James’ hands wrapped tightly around the handle of the sword, like he was claiming it as his own.

“How do I start?” James asked.

“With drills,” Sam said. “And _I_ _’ll_ be teaching those. I don’t want your knight-protector worrying he’s going to break his charge.”

Steve shot Sam a look, which the other man rebuffed with the shrug of one shoulder.

To Steve’s relief, it brought out a smile from James.

“I’m not as breakable as you think,” James said.

Sam’s only response was to open his arms up and welcome the challenge.

“You’re not breakable,” Steve said. “You’re not fragile, or a child. We’re not going to treat you like one. You think you can handle that?”

Aa stillness settled in the room. Then, James smiled. A warmth spread out from the center of Steve’s chest and he had to suppress his own grin. The apples of his cheeks rose all the same, and he could not keep the pride from his eyes. He saw that pride reflected back at him in that cold, pale face, which seemed to be warming with color.

#

The knights instructed the prince in awkward bursts of starts and stops. They were, the three of them, not quite sure of each other yet. The prince seemed self-conscious about how weak he was, but reeled back whenever he thought he was using too much force. He was more afraid to hit than be hit, as he recovered from a swipe across the arm with indifference, rising to the occasion of fighting back.

“Sad,” Natasha said, voice flat.

“He’s doing well,” Clint responded.

“Hmm. Sad.”

The pair of them sat outside, peering in through the windows. They had decided to keep watch when the two knights pulled the boards down from the windows and cleared the space, setting it up with wooden swords, shields, and targets. It had been industrious to watch it all happen over the course of one night.

“So, Lord Sitwell is to be a guest through some of the winter,” Natasha said. “That’s interesting. I find that interesting. Don’t you find that interesting?”

“It’s pretty interesting,” Clint agreed. “It’s not just Sitwell. Blue and red lords alike are wintering here, at least part of the time.”

“What’s he need with all those lords around him, I wonder?”

Clint let the silence settle between them. Neither of them had an answer, though suspicions abounded. There was no point in talking it over, however. There was only action to take, the work of spies ahead of them.

But for now, they watched the prince clumsily swing a sword and seethe when he thought he hit too hard. The knight Sam seemed amused. Then he egged the prince on. The prince seemed to enjoy that, coming back with renewed enthusiasm. They stopped only so that Knight-Captain Rogers could show him how to move better.

Clint worried his brow as he saw how the prince’s protector touched and spoke to him. He turned to see that Natasha had the same worried expression.

“Sad,” Natasha said again.

They sat back as spectators for a long time, Clint allowing Natasha her silence. Something brewed behind her eyes and he knew when to let things sit.

“You ever make a choice you regret?” Natasha asked.

“All the time,” Clint said.

“Really? You seem a man of your convictions.”

“I am. Doesn’t mean my convictions don’t lead me astray.”

Natasha’s laugh was a short puff. “Yeah, well, I never had many convictions. Just instincts. I follow them, see where they go, like a serpent seeking out shade in the summer.”

“Those instincts take you good places or bad places?”

“Don’t know. I no longer think I have a choice. I simply follow. Snake. Rock. Instinct.”

Clint nodded. “What is your instinct telling you now?”

“That I made a mistake. That they sent me to assassinate someone who could do some real good—who doesn’t deserve death. And if they did that, they aren’t the people they told me they were.”

“You think the prince can stand up to his cousin?”

Natasha turned her head and looked at Clint askance. “You don’t understand. They didn’t send me to kill the prince.”

Natasha’s finger pointed to the corner of the room where Knight-Captain Rogers stood watching his charge with a smile on his face.

#

James laid down on the flagstone floor, chest rising and falling. Sweat rolled down his face and dripped from his spine. His throat was dry, and he couldn’t seem to take in enough air. What air he could breathe in was hot, as if it were not really late autumn after all. He wanted nothing more than to have a drink of water.

“Just give me a moment,” James said.

“I think the boy’s had enough for today,” Sam said, putting away the wooden swords.

“No. I can keep going.”

“If you keep going,” Steve said. “You won’t have the strength to walk here tomorrow. Save your strength for then.”

“Just give me some water and I can…”

Steve helped pull James to his feet. He surrendered himself to the knight’s strength. It was only then that he realized how exhausted he really was. He wanted to fall into Steve’s arms, to stay propped up by his strength, his alone. Surrendering did not sound so bad to him. He wondered, with vivid clarity, what it would be like to bury his forehead in the swell of that chest, to wrap his arms around that broad ribcage.

Instead, he steadied himself with a hand on Steve’s arm.

Steve offered him a skein. Realizing what it was, he snatched it up and drank deep of the cool water. He wiped his lips, knowing he appeared undignified, but in the company of these men he had the luxury of not caring. They had seen him swing a sword like a boy at play, sweating and stumbling. They would not care about the water dribbling down his chin.

“It’s late in the day,” Sam said. “People will begin to wonder where we are.”

“Alright, Sam,” Steve said. “Go attend your lord. We’ll finish up here.”

James wasn’t sure what it was, but something passed between the two knights. It was too quick to be sure, but it was a little like admonishment. All the same, Sam agreed and departed before the two of them.

It was only himself and Steve. The quiet of the undercroft was heavy, but not altogether uncomfortable. There was something unspoken in it, but James didn’t know what words were being left unsaid.

“You did well today,” Steve told him.

“I looked like an ass,” James corrected him.

Steve laughed, a flash of bright teeth. “You should have seen me when I started my training. All scrawny and—”

“I’ll do better next time. I will.”

“I know you will.”

“I want to be strong.”

James had said it more forcefully than he meant to. It made Steve blink and wonder at him in silence. James let himself breathe, catching his breath before he tried to say what was on his mind.

“I see something in you,” James said. “Something I’ve not known from anybody else in my life. You make me want to be—I want to be—I just want to be strong. I thought that was something you just _are_ , but I know now. It’s a decision you make. At some point you decide: I want to be strong. I’m making that decision now.”

Steve seemed to be holding his breath. His face relaxed and became soft. He lowered his gaze to look him in the eye.

“It wasn’t me, James,” Steve said. “You have this in you. You’re the one who’s going to make you strong.”

The distance between them was unbearable. The heat in James’ face was rising when it should have been cooling. He was fixated on Steve’s lips, which were parted after he had spoken. The earnestness in Steve’s eyes was enough that he wanted to launch over the distance between them.

“If you want to be strong,” Steve said, face taking on a somber tone. “There’s something else that has to happen.”

“Anything,” James said in a whisper.

“You’re not taking that medicine anymore.”

It hadn’t been what James had been expecting. Though if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to come out of that mouth.

“What?” James whispered.

Steve leveled his eyes at him. “When the physician comes we send him away and we throw that godforsaken brew out the window.”

“I—how am I going to—I need to take medicine. The royal disease, if I let it take me—”

Steve set his hands on James’ shoulders, looking out from under heavy brows. James was transfixed, but no longer wanting to close the gap between them. Steve’s words, not his lips, were what were important.

“I never see you weaker than when you do what your cousin wants you to do. He wants you to take that medicine. I don’t trust it. I don’t think you should, either.”

“But what if—”

“Whatever it is, we’ll meet it when it comes. I know a thing or two about how to treat an illness. If you’re really sick then _leave it to me_ —I know how to treat it, or someone who really does. Trust me?”

James could do nothing else but nod. He found he did trust him, though it was still strange to think about. How much of his life was spent with medicines and potential cures, each more horrible than the last? he wondered. Yet, until Steve, until someone from the outside, had pointed it out to him, he had never wondered. Now he did. He wondered how his life came to be this way.

“It’s getting late in the day,” Steve said. “And excuse me, your highness, but you stink to high heaven. Let’s get you a bath.”

James’ face broke out into a smile as he dropped his head in bashfulness. He did smell and was covered in sweat.

“I think I could do with a soak,” James agreed with a laugh.

#

James dipped into the hot water and groaned. Steve refused to look. The servants seemed used to his nudity, but Steve still flushed to think of it. But once in the water, Steve allowed himself to look.

“Thank you,” James said sincerely to the attending woman. “You can leave us.”

The attending woman glanced back and forth at Steve and James, darting eyes full of a soft suspicion. Steve wasn’t sure what to make of that look, but she bowed and trotted away. They were left alone.

They shared a long silence and Steve began to wonder if he had fallen asleep in the bath. Then Bucky began to wash himself in slow, fluid motions.

“You know, you really don’t have to be here,” James teased. “Plenty of people with targets on their backs bathe alone.”

“You read any history?” Steve said. “A lot of those people ended up bleeding into their bathwater.”

James craned his head around and snickered before washing his face with a cloth. He sighed and sunk further into the bathwater, the tips of his hair getting wet.

“I’m sorry,” James said.

Steve’s brow furrowed and his head tilt curiously. “For what?”

“I’m so weak. It can’t have been easy, constantly keeping me from stumbling, picking me up off the ground—”

Steve sighed. “Stop that.”

Steve picked up a chalice and found a pitcher of water, pouring it into the cup. James’ hand was open, and he took the water and drank deep from it. Steve pulled up a servant’s chair and sat down next to James. The water was clear, and Steve kept his eyes on the prince’s face. The royal brow was troubled, and his feet crested the water to sit on the edge.

“Is it always this hard?” James asked, sinking further into the water.

“It’s always hard,” Steve said. “The difference is that you get stronger, and the hard things become easier.”

“I never would have thought about it that way. My knight-protector is a man of learning—history _and_ philosophy.”

Steve laughed, bowing his head. “I don’t know about that, my lord.”

“You gave me a bruise today. You can stop calling me ‘my lord.’”

“I’d rather not get out of the habit of saying it, or I’ll call you ‘James’ in polite company and lose my knighthood.”

“They wouldn’t take it away for that.”

“The king might.”

Steve knew that if he were the man he had been before he met the prince, he would have scolded himself, apologized, and made amends. Instead, Bucky’s eyes went deep with understanding. They both knew and suspected and understood that there was something rotten in Alexander’s rule, but it was not the time to give words to it. It was only time to watch, to wait, to bide their time. That knowledge hung above them like a cold shadow and James dunked his head into the water to wet his hair. James stayed under for a long time, and Steve wondered how he could stand it in such hot water. The moment concern began to come over him, James breached the water, taking a deep breath, wiping the water from his eyes. He stared at the stained window which faced the north and seemed so far away that if Steve reached out, he wouldn’t be able to touch him.

“I’m so used to being tired,” James said, leaning over the edge of the bath to look at Steve. “This is a different kind of tired.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said.

“Don’t be. I like this kind of tired. I earned it. Every ounce of it.”

Steve smiled, soft and a little sad. He thought of his own childhood, racked with illness, how tired he always was. He wondered if it compared at all to the royal disease, to the way the prince would lose all the blood in his face and have a spell, to his infinite frustration. He thought it best not to open his mouth and try and convince him that he once was a skinny slip of a boy who only got lucky to stumble into some alkemy.

“Why are you so kind to me?” James whispered, that far-away look returning.

Steve’s heart thudded as he thought perhaps he’d become transparent. When the prince didn’t press it further, Steve decided it was his own silly hopes trying to worm out of his heart.

“Is there a reason not to be?” Steve asked.

James tsked. “I’m used to luxuries—wine, food, clothes, bedding—but kindness? It’s so rare a commodity here in this kingdom. I don’t know where they horde it, but they certainly aren’t sharing it with me. I’m sorry. I’m such a stupid man, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not stupid, James.”

There was a bit of scold to Steve’s voice and James had detected it, though there was no anger in his face. Just a soft acceptance in a rather lazy stare.

Steve wanted nothing more than to grab the prince’s hand in comfort. But he knew what he would do the moment he touched him. He would bring the back of his hand to his lips and kiss it, then turn the hand to kiss the palm, and kiss his wrist at its tenderest part and turn his head to find his lips—

Steve blinked rapidly, pulling himself from the intoxicating reverie.

 _I_ _’m the stupid one_ , Steve said, only in his head.


End file.
